


Scripta Manent

by itsoktobemarty



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Description of wounds, Drug Addiction, Fluff and Angst, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Jehan, Latin Kink, M/M, Pining, Religious Fanaticism, Scars, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmate-Identifying Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, rivals to friends to lovers, the language not the ethnicity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-09 12:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11104632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsoktobemarty/pseuds/itsoktobemarty
Summary: "Verba volant, Grantaire," said Enjolras, ablaze with passion, though none of that reached Grantaire, frozen in place from the icy cold stare aimed at him."Scripta manent." Grantaire responded flippantly, with his freshly scarred soul mark burning between his shoulders.~In a universe where soul marks are earned when you're ready, you never really are.





	1. Alcoholic Kind Of Mood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zlilyanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlilyanne/gifts).



> Hi! This is Marty!
> 
> This fic is born from the idea that of soulmarks that don't signify the first meeting, allowing for interesting character dynamics and development. I hope you'll like the concept! 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts on this initial chapter, and if you want more~
> 
> This is betad/checked/rewritten in proper English/purged from excessive metaphors by [Zuzu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlilyanne) so you can blame her if you find mistakes :D
> 
> Chapter title from "Nancy Boy" by Placebo, a very Grantaire song.

As he came back to his senses, Grantaire was fully aware that he was a pathetic human being. Twenty-six years spent on his regrettable life, and what did he have to show for it? He had managed to drop out of art school, spent his life in a basement covered in paint, and currently had more addictions than any self-respecting human being should have. Well, not that Grantaire had ever claimed to be self-respecting in the slightest. 

Glancing at the time on his phone display was painful, even with the brightness turned to the lowest setting. His hangover still lingered, and that shouldn’t be a surprise, considering he had stopped drinking at an hour considered by most lunchtime. He had then proceeded to pass out on the kitchen table, and wasn’t that going to be a delight for his back. If his phone was to be trusted, he still had over an hour before the meeting. And there was no reason not to trust his phone. But Grantaire still fished for his pocket watch, finding it attached to the usual chain. The watch showed the same time as his phone, but old habits were hard to get rid of. Especially since Grantaire was a pathetic human being.

After a shower and a change of clothes, he felt presentable. Well, presentable by lower standards. But beggars can’t be choosers and all of that. As he was considering whether or not it was a health hazard to eat something from his fridge, a sound startled him: the doorbell. That was surprising, and not only because he wasn’t expecting any visitors; but also because the doorbell had a habit of refusing to work, and most people had to resort to knocking.

He probably should get around to repair that damned contraption, however he had never found it in himself to care enough. He didn’t have many visitors, much less welcomed ones, and the rest of the basement apartment was in such a state that repairing the doorbell seemed the last of his problems. His doorbell reflections must have made the visitor impatient, because there was another imperious ring. And wow, two in a row, wasn’t that a good omen.

“R, open the door, I know you’re in there!”

Oh, thank the gods, it was Joly. For a moment, Grantaire had feared it was his dealer, demanding money.

“Coming, Jollly! I am sober and dressed, don’t get your panties in a bunch!”

He didn’t hear it, but Grantaire was sure Joly had sighed in relief. Once wallet, keys, phone, watch and sketchbook were all accounted for, Grantaire went to the door, opening it just enough to step outside. The less Joly saw of his mess of an apartment, the better.

“So how come you’re picking me up? Afraid I’ll get lost in a drunken haze?” Grantaire asks, sarcasm covering only most of the sentence.

Joly sighed, but didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead he absent-mindedly rubbed a hand over his neck, tracing the path of his soul mark; as he often did when he was contemplating something. The scar, now completely white, ran from his clavicle all the way over his jugular, and read “ _You’ll never guess what happened today!_ ”. To nobody’s surprise, Bossuet had the matching one, spiraling on his ankle, and it said " _Perhaps your mark completed today?_ ”

Grantaire was sure he would have hated any and all matched couples, but there was no hating Joly and Bossuet. Grantaire had known them all throughout their university years (or rather, Joly and Bossuet’s university years, and his own botched attempt) and had been there to witness as their marks had come in, angry red wounds resolving slowly into letters and then sentences, all without a single doubt that they would match each other when completed.

When delving into the topic of soulmates, one would find that historically, it was initially believed that the words that appeared on your skin were the first you’d exchange with your fated match; and maybe it was like that in the beginning, but now the marks had evolved. In modern times, soul marks usually appeared slowly, one letter or character at a time, and the current understanding was that they represented your emotional maturity, how ready you were to be with your designed match, though no one knew for sure, just as no one knew what caused the formation of such scars. It occurred sometimes, that even though you had already met your soulmate, you wouldn’t know you were matched until all the letters of your mark grew in, completing it. They didn’t need to be sentences, especially for languages with ideograms that encompassed entire sentences or states of being, but they still represented the exchange that would ignite your soul bond. Grantaire, to no one’s surprise, still hadn’t received a single letter. Emotional maturity, now there was an impossible goal if he had ever seen one.

Joly was watching him with a curious expression on his face, probably wondering about the reason for his unusual somber silence. The only sounds came from the lively parisian streets and the rhythmic thud of Joly’s walking cane on the concrete. However, the silence wasn’t unwelcome. Both men were content to walk in silence towards the bus stop that would take them to the Musain, the café where the meeting was taking place.

It was still a blur, how exactly Grantaire had originally been convinced to go to a meeting of very enthusiastic social activists. He blames it on whatever substance was clouding his judgement at the time. It was perfectly clear why he kept coming back, however. It circled right back to the long list of reasons why Grantaire was a pathetic human being. Still, someone like him, cynic by alignment and nihilist by nature, should have had no place in a group that truly, fully believed they were able to change the world. They called themselves “ _Les Amis de l’ABC_ ”, because apparently social justice fighters have a penchant for puns. Both Joly and Bossuet had joined the group when it was just a small gathering of friends during university, but now it had grown, gathering more members and funds and becoming a real organisation. They still liked to meet in the café where they started, close to the department of Law, and host weekly gatherings for the founding members. Now, Grantaire should be the farthest thing from a contributing member, let alone a founding one; yet, barring medical emergencies, he was expected to show up every week like clockwork. Weren’t it for Joly, he would have faked some illness already, but alas, the many downsides of having a doctor as a best friend.

The bus was uncharacteristically on time, and they got to the university district sooner than anticipated. Joly was saying how Bossuet was meant to take the car and drive him and Grantaire to the meeting, but was held up at work, as per his usual luck. And, as if the mention of his name served as summon, the man himself appeared from around the corner, most likely coming from the metro station. Not that Bossuet was his real name. He was actually called Lesgles, but the nickname was now permanently etched in his persona, so much that, to Les Amis, he was Bossuet.

As soon as he saw his soulmate, Bossuet smiled his biggest smile, and sped up to meet them in front of the doors of the Musain. Grantaire noted with amusement that despite the temperate March climate, Bossuet was wearing a hat, and couldn’t help making a joke on how his bald head was sensitive to cold.

“We can’t all have a particularly rebellious bird’s nest on top of our heads, R.” Bossuet replied serenely, and bent down to plant a loud kiss on Joly’s mouth.

Grantaire sighed as Bossuet took the time to caress Joly’s soul mark. “Oh, please, take your time. It’s not like you’re the one that will be publicly humiliated if late by so much as a minute…”

“Don’t be absurd, Grantaire. We have plenty of time. No one is going to be late.” Joly assured, but separated from his partner anyway.

Grantaire still made a show of slowly checking his pocket watch, likely taking more time than the couple’s greeting. Bossuet rolled his eyes and took matters in his own hands, tugging Grantaire by his sleeve into the café.

The café Musain was warm, bright, and loud; and at least two of those things bothered the remains of Grantaire’s hangover. The sounds of an animated argument drifted down from the upper floor, from the private room used for the meetings. The lower floor was the actual café, now turned into bar for the evening. Grantaire noticed with delight that the person tending the counter that night was the young student that didn’t mind giving him gin tonics with inverted proportions.

“Ah, guys! Just in time!” A bright, familiar voice cheered, and sure enough, Courfeyrac was grinning at them from the stairs.

Courfeyrac was one of the three ideators of Les Amis, and the person who handled most of the recruitments. He easily made friends even in the most obscure circles. He descended the stairs to meet them, stopping only to signal the bartender for a drink, which he was given without having to specify which one or pay for it, Grantaire noted with envy.

“Well, they need me upstairs, you know how it is… But you guys take your time, get a drink, ok? We’re still waiting for a couple more people.” He smiled again, gave a jaunty wave and was off again.

Joly immediately offered to help set up, while Grantaire and Bossuet moved to the counter instead.

“Whatever you made for Courf, but three times stronger.” Grantaire requested, ignoring Bossuet’s eye roll. He only requested a beer, the lightweight.

“Uhm, he only ordered soda…” The barista replied.

“Oh dear, four times then. What’s with this ever-spreading sobriety?” Grantaire asked, leaning on the bar and giving the young bartender a conspiring look. The barista laughed at that, apparently in agreement, and prepared their drinks.

Suddenly, a neon-dressed, drenched figure burst through the door.

“What is this madness outside?” They exclaimed. “Rainstorms with a bright sky?! And to think, they are believed poetic…”

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh at the sight: the newcomer was trying to disentangle their wet, braided hair from an acid green tasseled coat.

“Prouvaire, you wonderful human being, do you need any help?” He called, though making no move to stand up from the bar. And indeed, they were already done fighting with their coat and  hung it up to dry on a rail.

“Grantaire! Bossuet! I see you missed the rain! I seem to be having the worst fortune today… I’m probably the last to arrive, am I not?”

“We still haven’t been upstairs, Jehan.” Bossuet replied, grabbing his beer and getting ready to head up. “You should probably get something warm to drink, or you’ll catch a cold.”

Jehan nodded, and asked for tea.

“You look awful, ‘Taire.” Jehan told him with shameless glee. “Though the golden paint on your collar does compliment your eyes.” Jehan added, sounding like it was entirely possible for Grantaire to have purposefully painted his shirt to improve it.

Making small talk with Jehan was simultaneously both easy and impossible, because while they loved to chat, their idea of small talk spanned all topics, like morbid medieval poetry, the tragic state of the education system, and why Dan Brown’s interpretation of the Divine Comedy was unacceptable. However, Grantaire was perfectly content to not have an opinion on something for once, and the two of them spent a good ten minutes enjoying their drinks before Courfeyrac came down to tell them that the meeting was about to start.

“So, who’s missing?” Grantaire asked, as they made their way upstairs. “Who’s this week’s lucky recipient of the very disappointed email from our fearless leader?”

“Well, Bahorel for once. He had to turn in something for work and forgot, apparently. Also Marius, still with Cosette visiting her mother; and Éponine, though I’ll be damned if I know the reason, as per the usual with her.” Courfeyrac replied, as always perfectly informed about everyone’s whereabouts.

The projector display in the room was showing an article detailing why Christianity was the superior religion. _Well, that couldn’t be good_ , Grantaire immediately thought, regretting not having gotten a second drink to bring upstairs.

Feuilly, the resident redhead and occasionally resident computer expert, was already working behind a monitor, but spared a moment to wave at Grantaire and Jehan. Meanwhile, the two other members of the triumvirate that directed Les Amis were discussing animatedly over some notes; most likely the same argument that Grantaire had heard when he arrived at the café. They both barely glanced up, and only Combeferre lifted an eyebrow in recognition and salute. Not that Grantaire was paying attention to Combeferre. Nothing against Combeferre, really, but Grantaire was a pathetic human being and hadn’t seen Enjolras in almost a week. He needed his fix.

Enjolras, the fearless leader of Les Amis de l’ABC, and everything unholy Grantaire dreamt at night. Grantaire wasn’t being sarcastic when he said that he had a perfectly good reason to keep coming to these meetings of idealists set to fail, just as he wasn’t lying when he mentioned his disturbing number of addictions. And Enjolras, especially in his element, brilliant and vibrant with passion, was probably the most dangerous of them all. Grantaire brought a sketchbook for the specific purpose of capturing Enjolras’ expressions during the meetings: a brow, arched in perplexity; the curl of his lips when he found something to be pleasing; how his blond curls seemed to move according to his moods. He probably had enough sketches to fill an exhibition, pages and pages of each and every of Enjolras’ expressions detailed with more precision than shaky drunken hands should allow for. Enjolras was the personification of classical proportions, a perfect symmetry of features that had frankly no place on a mortal, much less a mortal in Grantaire’s direct line of sight. There was a certain androgynous look to him, exemplified by the long golden curls that tumbled down his shoulders, and that he refused to cut. Those curls haunted Grantaire in all the most sinful ways. And the eyes. An icy blue, cutting like glass, deceptively framed by long, feminine lashes. And while his eyes might be cold, the rest of him was blazing, radiant, too bright to look at, capable of lighting a fire in any man, incite the crowds and make them believe that the world could be changed.

Grantaire often felt too inadequate to even look at Enjolras, and yet few were the things he wouldn’t do to garner the demanding spotlight of Enjolras’ attention. And so he came to the meetings, and listened to Enjolras, speaking with a voice that carried the fury of fallen angels of a world that could never be. He still remembers when, during one of his very first appearances at the meetings, after having had one, or two, or maybe it was four, glasses too many he found himself unable to keep his cynicism to himself. Enjolras spoke of utopian ideals and righting unforgivable injustices as if his purpose on Earth was to smite the wicked with his fury, but Grantaire knew how little it lined up with the way the world worked, and couldn’t stay silent anymore.

Until that moment, Grantaire had never understood Icarus. Why fly towards the sun, when you know you’ll get burned? But when Enjolras turned the full blazing force of his attention on him, he had a moment of clarity. Why fly at all if you couldn’t soar into the sun? He didn’t care if Apollo would smite him from the sky, as long as he looked at him first.

And after that, disagreeing with Enjolras had become one of his many unhealthy habits, and while initially it was mainly arguing for the thrill of it, to annoy Enjolras, rile him up until his pupils would dilate when he looked at Grantaire; it eventually became a challenge to Grantaire, destroying the fearless leader’s perfectly crafted speeches just to see if they crumbled like sand castles.

Right now, Grantaire’s oblivious muse was still scowling at Combeferre and what likely were his correction on the speech. Grantaire couldn’t help but notice how his hands were clenched in frustration, perfectly clipped nails biting white, unscarred skin.

“‘Taire, we should probably go sit down.” Jehan said, with an arched eyebrow that said Grantaire wasn’t being subtle in the slightest.

“I think I’ll probably stay in the back. Wanna join me?” Grantaire replied, lazily dragging his eyes away from Enjolras and to his interlocutor. Jehan shrugged, and they both sat at one of the back tables, diagonally from the projector.

For the past year or so, Les Amis had been occupied tracking the activities of a group of catholic extremists that called themselves “Les Roses De La Pureté”, or Roses for short. They advocated against freedom of religion, and to institute a government that followed catholic principles above all others. They had been mainly unknown, until a sudden spike in popularity and funding availability in the past two years, which led Les Amis to think that they were receiving illegal funding from the government. Currently displayed on the projector was one of their latest publications, meant to spread misinformation about religious practices and how catholicism could enlighten political leaders.

Grantaire only half listened to Enjolras rehearse a speech for one protest or another, too busy admiring the way his neck tendons shifted as he talked with more passion and sketching it. At one point, Jehan scribbled a verse next to his lines, something horrifically morbid about how statues would shatter their mouths if they tried to talk. The speech was less engaging than usual, if even Jehan was getting distracted.  

After what must have been close to an hour, Feuilly interrupted Enjolras to point out that the speech had an underestimation of Roses’ members, to which Enjolras reacted with a rather undignified snarl and demanded to know how could they keep increasing. Courfeyrac took advantage of the pause to declare an intermission, and that he was going to order some snacks from the bar downstairs. And that was a perfect opportunity for Grantaire to get a drink, which he would need if he was planning to actually listen to the rest of the meeting.

The bartender was more than happy to mix him something as strong as earlier, throwing in a wink that somehow managed to encompass him, Courfeyrac, and a group of young girls with martinis. Grantaire just raised a skeptical eyebrow (the guy couldn’t be older than twenty) and paid, leaving the meaningless flirting to Courfeyrac.

When he walked back into the meeting room, he was ambushed as soon as he sat down. Just enough time to notice that Jehan had gone to Combeferre to discuss something, then Enjolras was suddenly in front of him.

“Grantaire.” He said, curt and to the point, maintaining eye contact, in what he probably thought was the polite thing to do.

Grantaire dignified him with nod and a roll of his wrist, as if to say “at your service”, then dived for a sip of his drink. His mouth had gone suddenly dry. Enjolras didn’t usually just appear to talk to him. It had probably been more than two weeks since the last civil conversation they’d had that didn’t involve other people.

“You’re drinking.” Enjolras managed to infuse two words with a plethora of different feelings, including surprise, disgruntlement and a pinch of annoyance.

“Oh, Apollo.” Grantaire mocked, and Enjolras immediately bristled at the nickname. “I’m almost offended at your surprise. Me without a drink would surely be more worthy of notice.”

Enjolras looked away, and seemed to find something interesting in his field of sight.

Oh crap, his sketches.

“That’s uh, a nice neck.” Enjolras commented, seemingly trying to change the topic to something less personal. Of all the things he could have picked, Grantaire thought.

“Apollo, not that I don’t live to indulge your small talk, but is there some purpose to this?” Grantaire asked. He didn’t have to specify what “this” meant. They were both perfectly aware that Enjolras must have been a reason to just suddenly start a conversation with him.

“Can you draw digitally?” Enjolras finally spit out. “I’ve been trying to get this Christian organisation to join Les Amis at the manifestation, and they asked for a program, which we have, of course I have a program, but Combeferre keeps saying that it looks like a shopping list, which I consider to be a good thing but no, apparently people prefer ribbons and decorations to actual content-”

“Yes.” Grantaire interrupted, covering his mouth with a hand to hide his besotted smile. Enjolras rambling in righteous annoyance was definitely too much to take, especially up close.

“Yes what?” Enjolras asked brusquely, as always unhappy to be interrupted.

“Yes I’ll turn your shopping list into an offer no respecting religious organisation could refuse.” Grantaire told him with a cocky grin.

Enjolras simply nodded, clearly missing the reference. “Thank you. Do you think you could manage by next week?” He asked, squinting a bit, clearly doubtful.

And oh, that hurt. Did Enjolras think him so incompetent? As if adding angels and swapping a few fonts was an herculean task!

“Don’t look so worried, Apollo, you’ll have your program before you can say ‘oppression of the proletariat’.” He gritted out, maybe harsher than intended.

“Oppression of the proletariat?” Enjolras repeated, ignoring the shift in tone.

“Now, now, don’t cheat. A week, you said. Also, I’m sure you’re needed back up front, where the people who want to change the world are.” Grantaire had put on his best sarcastic tone, and was rewarded with Enjolras sighing and turning his back on him without another word, except maybe a curse under his breath.

After that, there was nothing else to do for Grantaire but sit back down, pocket the sketch, and enjoy the second part of the meeting.


	2. Tout Est Beau Tout Est Rose, Avant Que Mon Ego S’Impose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' perspective of the meeting, and barely civilised disagreements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Ego" by Willy William, the sentence means "everything is good, everything is pink, before my ego takes over", which seems a rather fitting quote for Enjolras at his worst.

“Now, now, don’t cheat. A week, you said. Also, I’m sure you’re needed back up front, where the people who want to change the world are.” Grantaire said, in evident mockery, a sardonic smile appearing on his face. Enjolras didn’t really want to start an argument, not after asking for a favour, so he simply turned on his heels, muttering a quick “Not again…” under his breath.

His interactions with Grantaire seemed to be all doomed from the start. He had been brought to a meeting by Bossuet and Joly, and Enjolras could distinctly recall him quoting a good paragraph of Montesquieu and commenting on it, and having a good feeling about him. But his instincts had completely missed the mark.

Grantaire appeared determined to contradict any statement he made, mock his ideals and outright oppose his campaign and the work Les Amis were trying to do. If there ever was a loud, sarcastic remark cutting though his speech, Enjolras could be sure that it was coming from the cynic with dark unruly curls and an omnipresent drink in his hand. Sometimes, Enjolras almost prefered the nights when Grantaire was too deep in his cup to interrupt, as cruel as that made him. Joly had scolded him soundly the only time he had voiced his opinion on the matter, but despite what the good doctor had said, Enjolras had never known a strong willed person with an addiction or a weak willed person without. Grantaire’s friends coddled him in his excesses, what he really needed was discipline and conviction.

Enjolras made his way back to Feuilly to make sure all the new information about Roses members had been confirmed with sources and sent to him. He and the rest of Les Amis had been tracking the group for almost a year now, but the rapid increase in their popularity and support was unprecedented, and it clearly wasn't casual. Enjolras was betting that Les Roses had found some connection, possibly with an intolerant millionaire or maybe even with one of the more conservative branches of the government. In any case, someone had to expose that link and hopefully shut down the group. Enjolras was sure that their influence was behind the rise in hate crimes targeting minorities in France. Most of the offences that they had been able to link to Les Roses De La Pureté consisted of threats to minority owned shops and activities and some aggressions, still nothing big enough to bring the group to the attention of the nation. Considering the general climate in the western world, it wasn't so surprising that groups like them existed, but the way they acted, as if they were sure they'd encounter no repercussions, was suspicious.

“Feuilly, you said no Roses member has been convicted for their actions?” Enjolras asked, chasing that last train of thought, and taking advantage of the fact that most of Les Amis were still indulging in Courfeyrac’s snack tray.

“Yeah, many of them have criminal records for petty offences but nothing that can be directly related to the group.” Feuilly answered distractedly, switching tabs in his computer to bring up a list of profiles from the police database.

“That doesn't make any sense!” Enjolras exclaimed, a little louder than he intended, catching the attention of the room. “How can the police stay silent in the face of blatant hate and violence?”

Unprompted, Grantaire immediately replied: “Corruption.”

“Yeah, bribes. That's a sure way to have the police look the other way.” Courfeyrac added, gesticulating with a sandwich.

“I can agree on the idea that cops are awful, but it can't be the entire Paris police force.” Bossuet reasoned. “Maybe there's an arrondissement where most of the Roses’ activity is concentrated, and that's where they have police complicity?”

“Guys, we can't just say that the police are covering up crimes against races and religions without any proof.” Combeferre said, in his calm and resolute tone. “Though I do agree that it is worth looking into.”

Enjolras deflated a little at the idea that any accusations against the police force were going to join the pile of arguments banned from his public speeches. Combeferre had a list. It was pinned to the fridge.

“I'll see what I can find out.” Feuilly said, a little delayed, busy typing up what appeared to be a list of confusingly long websites.

“Oh, and don't forget to mention this to ‘Ponine. She’s gotta have connections about corrupt cops.” Courfeyrac piped up, and Combeferre nodded and added a little post-it to his pile of perfectly organised handwritten notes. 

“Well, now that that's sorted, we should let Enjolras finish the speech for the protest.” Said Combeferre, with an air of finality that suggested they had taken enough of a break.

Enjolras went through his speech transcript. It was weak. He didn’t need to look at Combeferre’s obnoxious orange post-its to know. They usually marked the paragraphs with too many references to obscure French literates. And he definitely didn’t need Courfeyrac’s poorly muffled yawns during the more symbolic parts. The speech needed a rewrite, and that usually meant hours spent agonising over which reference to cut.

“There’s no point in going through the other half.” Enjolras finally relented, choosing to ignore the sighs of relief that followed. “I will prepare a new version for next week’s meeting, more concise and engaging.”

“Well then,” Combeferre interjected, “we should discuss the program for our protest. Especially since I’ve heard that R is making an official version, isn’t he?”

Enjolras instinctively turned to look at Grantaire, who was giving a nod of acknowledgment to Combeferre. He had a half-finished glass in front of him, but did not appear to be sketching, as it was often the case. Enjolras was actually pretty curious of what exactly Grantaire found in socialism that made him think of hellenistic statues. Maybe he would ask, the next time they were able to have a civil conversation.

The rest of the meeting was spent analysing the program and double checking that it would work, even if they had a different turnout than expected, both in positive and in negative. They had a little less than two weeks to finish the preparations, and still a lot to do, including, now, rewriting the main speech. Enjolras really hoped they could secure support from the Christian organisation, since it would make a more significant statement, and a more balanced one, with a religious organisation condemning the extremist views of Les Roses, who proclaimed to be Catholic as well.

They had decided to split in smaller groups to complete several small tasks at once, and everything seemed to be proceeding relatively well: Enjolras himself had decided to help Feuilly out with his investigation of previous charges against Roses members, while Combeferre was reviewing the material that the other organisations had sent, checking that none of their positions clashed with those of Les Amis. It was always risky partnering up with religious groups, because it was hard to gauge how liberal they actually were, but so far, everything seemed to be in favour of their collaboration at the protest. Enjolras’ attention was caught by Courfeyrac and Bossuet: they were meant to compile a list of supplies to gather before the protest, but seemed to be discussing something instead, judging by the amount of back and forth.

“Is everything all right with the supplies?” Enjolras decided to ask, getting to their table.

“Yeah, we were just trying to gauge how violent the protest could get.” Bossuet replied, looking darkly at their notes as if they were responsible for possible violence. “We are expecting the police to show, after all. And when religion is involved, there’s always the risk of extremists, of any side, deciding to take it personal.”

Courfeyrac nodded, and added: “Yeah, however, we can’t show up looking like we expect resistance, that would just be inviting it.”

Enjolras considered the situation. It wouldn’t have been the first time that their protest had been interrupted by the cops, and all of the main members of Les Amis had spent a couple of nights in a holding cell, but with the recent hypothesis that part of the police force was aiding Les Roses, the situation had to be considered more carefully.

It was probably a good idea to be extra careful with the signs, for once. No personal attacks on any Roses member, not yet, while their investigation was still ongoing. Also it was probably better if Les Amis left out any religious intention from their statements, and from his speech, Enjolras decided. And regarding their own safety at the protest, they had a few sets of protective, padded clothes, and Joly basically never left the house without his kit for mace and tear gas, but would that be enough? Maybe they needed something more drastic…

“To discourage violent repercussions from the crowd, would it be a terrible idea to bring a weapon?” He asked, talking mainly to Courfeyrac and Bossuet, but loud enough to address the room at large.

“A strong yes.” A voice answered immediately, and Enjolras didn’t even need to turn around: the appalled, contrary tone could only be owned by Grantaire.

“Excuse me?”

Grantaire looked at him like he was talking nonsense, a look he should have been used to. Enjolras could feel the customary annoyance at Grantaire's interjections swell up in him. Why did he even come if he was going to be contrary all the time?

“You are talking about bringing a weapon, like a gun, to a crowded protest. Do you even hear yourself?” Grantaire elaborated.

“Jesus, Grantaire, I’m not talking about roaming Paris with guns blazing and righteousness in our eyes.” Enjolras replied, maybe a touch more sardonic that he intended.

“Though that would be fun,” Courfeyrac commented, suppressing a smile out the corner of his eye. Judging by his reaction, Enjolras imagined his tone hadn’t been overly harsh.

Grantaire certainly didn’t seem to appreciate the irony, given his sour expression.

“Jacobin fantasies aside,” he started, tone getting harsher, “it’s a terrible idea to bring guns to a protest, especially when we’re pretty sure the police will interfere.”

“Obviously I didn’t mean it for the police, Grantaire.” Enjolras scoffed, and started walking towards the back almost unconsciously. He hated not seeing the facial expressions of the person he was debating against. “But as Bossuet mentioned, protests of this kind are likely to attract unwanted attention from different sides. Not to mention the possibility of actual Roses members showing up to disperse the crowd.”

“And your solution is bringing a gun?” Grantaire asked, still sounding like he was talking to some deranged maniac. Enjolras hated it, hated that Grantaire seemed to have no respect for him or Les Amis and their ideals. For someone that acted as if he had no confidence or self-esteem, looking down at his ideas like that felt undoubtedly hypocritical.

“You clearly underestimate the intimidatory power of a firearm. Most reasonable people would back away.”

“Well, you overestimate it. A gun wouldn’t make an armed member of Les Roses back away, it would just give him an excuse to believe we are a threat and act accordingly!” Grantaire almost snarled the last sentence, gesticulating aggressively.

Enjolras felt his annoyance quickly mount into rage. So that's how it was: Grantaire usually talked about the organisation as if it was completely unrelated to his persona, yet the second he was scared, he suddenly referred to Les Amis as “we”.

“You’re welcome to not come if you are worried about repercussions at the protest.” He decided to reply, in a snotty, mocking tone.

Once more, Grantaire looked at him with utter disbelief.

“Apollo,” he started, and it took all of Enjolras’ self control not to interrupt him about the idiotic nickname, “you are not bringing a gun to the protest. Where would you even get it?”

“Combeferre has one.” Enjolras promptly replied, trying to avoid sounding too smug. Grantaire immediately zeroed in on the man in question.

“Tu quoque, Brute?”

Combeferre adjusted his glasses, frowning, probably because of the sudden attention.

“Yes, I do have an old revolver,” he admitted, looking at Grantaire almost apologetically, “but it’s not loaded, and hasn’t been cleaned in ages.”

“See? No guns. Especially not old, unsafe guns. What if you shoot someone on accident?” Grantaire’s tone was smug, and he was settling down in his chair, reaching for his drink, probably thinking that the argument was over.

Oh no, Enjolras was not letting him have this.

“Maybe you're not, how do you say,” Enjolras pointedly looked at the drink in Grantaire’s hand, “focused enough to understand that I didn't mean to have unsecured weapons out in a crowd.”

Grantaire seemed to flinch at the jab, and looked around the room to gauge the others’ reactions. Jehan was indeed scowling at Enjolras, but most seemed content to let them argue without interfering as usual.

“Firearms are not toys that you can just parade around! And you're talking about bringing them to a protest full of bystanders, when you don't even have a permit!”  Grantaire yelled, voice getting louder, maybe to capture everybody's attention. “And you’re treating it like a mundane thing to do!” He concluded, once again addressing the room at large, and not only Enjolras.

“Nobody is underplaying this, you are the one who’s throwing a temper tantrum!” Enjolras interjected immediately, voice cutting. He was really getting tired of Grantaire trying to look like a marginalised victim. This whole argument had started because Grantaire had to challenge every statement he made.

Grantaire squared his shoulders, as if preparing for a physical fight. “If that’s what it takes for you to realise your idea is nonsensical!” He had to look up to Enjolras, who was standing in front of his table, but they hadn’t broken eye contact, as if searching for signs of indecision. “Bringing a gun is useless and plain stupid, how is this a difficult concept for you?” He almost shouted the last part, face ugly and red, distorted in anger.

“Well I’m not enslaved by my vices, for one thing!” Enjolras spat out, letting any pretence of a civilised argument fall.

Grantaire recoiled, looking down.

“That’s enough, Enjolras!” Combeferre boomed, standing up, clearly upset at his friend.

Grantaire didn’t look back at Enjolras, he stood up without a word, ignoring Jehan’s hand on his shoulder. Joly watched him go, and passed a hand over his face, sighing.

“If you’re satisfied, now,” Joly said, sounding tired but resolute, “let me say that nobody is bringing firearms to the protest. I don’t believe we even needed a discussion on that.”

Maybe because the scolding was coming from the usually cheerful doctor, Enjolras immediately felt embarrassed that he had let that discussion drag the way he did. Joly stared him down, as to confirm that he had no further objections, then gathered his cane and left, likely to catch up with Grantaire.

>>>

Enjolras put down the pile of documents from the meeting on his already overflowing desk. The meeting had come to a quick end after the rather embarrassing conclusion of his confrontation with Grantaire. He truly hadn’t intended to hurt the other man, but Grantaire always seemed to know which buttons to push to make him lose control.

“So, what was that?” Asked Combeferre, entering the study with two mugs of hot tea. He had remained silent the whole ride back from the Musain to Enjolras’ house, while Courfeyrac, maybe unnecessarily, debriefed them on all the progress that had been made at the meeting.

“You know, you have a house.” Enjolras remarked, petulant, instead of answering.

“Yeah, but yours is closer to the lab, and I need to be in at seven tomorrow.” Combeferre replied calmly, offering Enjolras the other mug. “And before you ask, Courfeyrac is staying because no way I’m trusting him with my car.”

Enjolras snorted. Yeah, that was probably a good call. Courfeyrac had already been fired from two jobs because of his… Not exactly impressive talents as a driver.

“Fine, fine, I mean it’s not like I have other guests that might need the room…”

Combeferre still eyed him expectantly, looking perfectly capable of waiting all night leaning against the entryway of Enjolras’ study. Enjolras sighed, deciding to skip the pretences.

“You know,” he started, unconsciously positioning himself in the center of the room, “one would think that in the middle of an… Animated discussion-”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it? Good to know.” Courfeyrac interrupted pointedly as he joined the two in the study.

Enjolras shot him a glare, and continued: “It should be acceptable to call into question aspects of someone’s personal life that might make them biased on the subject.”

“Yes, that’s generally correct, but not what you did now, is it?” Courfeyrac said, tone not angry, but firm. “More than question his impartiality, you insulted him. It’s quite cruel to hold someone’s addictions against them, especially when they aren’t directly relevant.”

Enjolras sighed tiredly, feeling cornered by his best friends. Sure, maybe Grantaire was sensitive on some subjects, but really, they were acting as if he had stabbed the guy.

“Fine, next time I see him I will apologise, tell him… That my comment was hurtful?” He asked, still unsure on what exactly made it so.

“Insensitive might be a better way to put it.” Combeferre suggested, having known Enjolras long enough to know how he cared about wording.

“Well, gentlemen,” declared Courfeyrac, back to smiling now that Enjolras had promised to apologise, “after all the excitement we had tonight, I’d say it’s time to bid our goodnights.”

>>>

The following morning, Enjolras had a day off, but still got up early to have breakfast with his almost roommates.

After sharing a dorm for most of their undergraduate courses, Combeferre, Enjolras and Courfeyrac had initially thought about sharing a place, but ultimately split up, with Enjolras getting a proper house, courtesy of his parents, and Combeferre sharing a rented apartment with Courfeyrac. However, the two visited all the time with one excuse or another; and basically ended up becoming Enjolras’ roommates again, especially when Les Amis were organising events.

Combeferre grabbed coffee and a couple of biscuits before running out to get to his lab, promising to be back for lunch to revise Enjolras’ new speech, should he have one. Courfeyrac was in less of a hurry, his new temp job starting a bit later in the morning, and he offered to make eggs for the two of them.

While waiting for his food, Enjolras checked his emails, and among those work related, he was pleased to find one from Marius asking about the meeting and to send a summary if possible. Enjolras immediately replied that he would send one as soon as possible, pleased that at least someone had decided to check in after missing a meeting. Though Bahorel was probably going to get an update from Feuilly one way or another, and Éponine just seemed to always be on top of things, despite her being present at only a handful of meetings.

In any case, Enjolras appreciated Marius’ enthusiasm, especially since he hadn’t been the most dedicated of members for a while; more precisely, during the period in which his mark had formed. As soon as the first letter had appeared on his hand, red and tender like a fresh cut, Marius had become obsessed with finding his match. And almost three months of meetings had gone disrupted by Marius bursting in to announce whether new letters had appeared or not, uncaring of the fact that his right hand was now a collection of open wounds. By the time his mark had completed (something unbearably cheesy like _“A heart full of love”,_ Enjolras wasn’t sure), Marius had to basically become ambidextrous. Thankfully, he ended up meeting his match mere days after his sentence completed, and Cosette turned out to be great, rekindling Marius’ efforts in Les Amis.

Enjolras was glad that nobody else was getting letters, or if they were, they were keeping it to themselves. And above all, he was glad he wasn’t being tormented by that. Everyone romanticised the act of marks appearing on your skin, one or two letters at a time, but it was actually pretty painful, and Enjolras even heard it described as someone carving the letter in with a knife. And even putting the pain aside, being scarred for life with a sentence that would eventually tie him with someone was a ridiculous and annoying prospect. He gladly left that to the romantics with a lowercase r.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Marty here! I know it's been a while, unfortunately I'm one of those overworked college students... 
> 
> This chapter has a lot of worldbuilding and exposition, but I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> As before, thanks to Zuzu for basically decanting this chapter to be in order to catch mistakes~
> 
> Next chapter should be interesting, and also the reason for half those tags, but let me know how you think Enj's apology will go...
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos guys, you have no idea how much they help!
> 
> -Marty


	3. Another Day's Been Laid To Waste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras decides to apologise, but Grantaire is not in the mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's Marty! 
> 
> This fic was not abandoned, it just turned out that finishing up a Masters degree takes up more time than I thought...  
> But fear not! I am back with that good soulmate angst~
> 
> A little heads up: you see those nasty tags up there? This is the chapter where you see many of them, so tread carefully. I decided to leave most of it off screen, as it is not the focus of the fic, but it is there and present.
> 
> Chapter title from "Given Up" by Linkin Park.

The day had started in the best possible way: with one of his clients paying for a commission. Grantaire had then spent a good chunk of the money on digital fonts and settling a few debts, including the one with his dealer, as he didn’t exactly fancy getting shot anytime soon.

The rest of the morning was spent working on Enjolras’ damned program, an easy enough task, but Grantaire had decided to make it perfect. He told himself it was to spite Enjolras, after the way he had been treated, but the real reason probably had more to do with the lengths he was willing to go to please Enjolras. 

After a few hours, the program started looking more like a passionate manifesto than a shopping list, and Grantaire decided to take a break. He laid back on his old sofa, enjoying the silence. The only audible sound came from his pocket watch, ticking steadily in his pocket. Grantaire checked the time out of habit, trying to suppress the feeling that the watch was somehow judging him for taking a break. Though that had probably more to do with the one who entrusted Grantaire with the object than the watch itself. 

It had been a present from Enjolras. Most likely a mocking one, but Enjolras had taken the time to wrap it in what looked like expensive paper, and handwrite a card that wished Grantaire a happy birthday and suggested to use the watch to be on time at their meetings. At that point, Grantaire was already slightly buzzed, and in a delighted mood, and might have overreacted a little, planting a kiss on the watch and ruffling Enjolras’ hair in a show of affection that he would have never dared to do in any other situation. But his Apollo hadn't seemed to annoyed at his overstepping of boundaries, or at least that’s how Grantaire liked to remember it, to avoid spoiling his happy memory.

That had been two years ago, and Grantaire had since meticulously kept the watch in perfect conditions, which was more than he could say for a lot of things, material or otherwise. Initially, he had enjoyed swinging the watch on its chain every time he arrived on time for a meeting, if only for the exasperated but not quite unkind look Enjolras would send his way; but soon he realised it was unfortunately a two way street, as the first time he happened to be late, Enjolras hadn't missed the occasion to make a remark on how his gift had been just a temporary fix. Ever since then, Grantaire arriving on time stopped being celebrated, or acknowledged even, and became what was expected of him if he wanted to avoid being mocked.

Grantaire sighed, and put down the watch, annoyed at how he had managed to turn a good thing into such a sour one. He looked around the room, hoping in a distraction. His latest commission was standing on an easel next to the window: it was a dystopic view of Paris, and Grantaire liked painting that with the actual city below, in full view. That main window was one of the few things in his apartment that were kept spotless, along with his collection of oil pigments. Looking at the canvas, Grantaire gave a passing thought to the idea of finishing the commission, but he didn't feel particularly inspired. He still needed ideas about how to fill his day, as it was barely noon, and his gaze fell on his pipe.

Well, that could be the crowning achievement of his pathetic decision making.

>>>

When the haze began to clear, Grantaire could notice there was not much light streaming in from the drawn curtain, meaning it was almost sundown. The room was now dark, and stuffy, and likely nauseating; but he wasn’t in any condition to tolerate light. 

The after-effects were unfortunately starting to kick in, with the first act, the headache from hell, taking center stage. Grantaire struggled briefly with hand-eye coordination in order to pick up his discarded pipe, nearly falling off the sofa in the process. After a few more minutes, when the contours of the furniture became less blurred, Grantaire started the long process of getting to the kitchen. His limbs felt like one of his unsculpted slabs of marble, heavy and unresponsive; and that wasn't even the worst part: Grantaire had to stop to rest against the doorframe as the cold sweat and unprompted goosebumps started, making him shivery and confused about the actual temperature of the room. Commanding all his remaining willpower, Grantaire managed to get in the kitchen and pour water into the kettle. He was mostly acting on autopilot, the actions familiar enough to him that he could perform them in the dark and with only a vague idea of the shape of the objects he was holding. A vague, more rational thought suggested how bad of an idea it was to operate the stove for an old-fashioned kettle while under the influence, but while he wasn’t actively ranking his poor decisions, this one wouldn’t even make the score board.

While collapsing on the floor in a pile of aching limbs and nausea seemed quite enticing, Grantaire collected the last of his energy to dump the consumed contents of his pipe in a teapot, and then finally drag himself back to the sofa, planning to doze off for a little while.

>>>

Grantaire startled awake to a piercing ringing sound that seemed to ricochet around inside his skull, making him flail then fall onto the floor with a pained curse.

“The motherfucking doorbell? Seriously?” He muttered, barely bothering to lift his face from the wooden boards of the floor. The wretched thing only decided to work when it was inconvenient for him.

While he considered getting up, the person on the other side of the door resorted to knocking, loud and firm sounds that claimed attention. No choice but to answer, then, as it didn’t seem whoever was at the door was inclined to give up.

He managed to check his pocket watch before getting to the door, noticing that it was a little past six in the evening. It was unusual to receive visits so late on a weekday, though he supposed he would have missed any heads-up texts or calls.

As he opened the door, the sudden light burned his sensitive eyes, and all he could see as he squinted was a blurred golden and red figure, edges distorted as if on fire. He blinked, trying to focus, as the apparition spoke, loud and musical and too fast to understand, and entered his house without waiting for his permission.

“...Grantaire, are you even list- Wait, what’s that foul smell?” Grantaire managed to catch parts of it, and now his head had cleared enough to recognise the golden hair and fire red jacket, not to mention the resonant, attention-commanding voice: Enjolras.

“What… How are you here?” He asked confusedly, still not completely sure that he wasn’t hallucinating everything. Enjolras looked at him, and Grantaire couldn’t be sure because all he saw was belligerent blue, but he seemed upset.

“I came here to…” Was all Enjolras offered in response, sounding slightly defeated, and Grantaire was having trouble keeping track of his words. “… And you’re high!” The blonde concluded, voice now losing any melodic quality, as it so often did when directed it at Grantaire.

“Was.” Grantaire replied, too out of it to even feel hurt by Enjolras’ judgement.

The blonde bristled at that but Grantaire’s attention was captured by those endless curls bobbing around. Enjolras went on with some reprimand or lecture, but his words were currently lost on Grantaire, who simply nodded dazedly, trying to focus on individual strands of hair.

Enjolras snapped his fingers mere centimeters from Grantaire’s face, demanding attention. “Did you hear me?” He questioned, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. Then his tone surprisingly softened: “What did you take?”

“Huh?” Grantaire took a second to process that, half tempted to grab the polished hand in front of him. “Oh, opium.” He finally replied, distractedly, still tracking the movements of Enjolras’ fingers.

“Are you kidding me?” Enjolras seemed incredulous. He muttered something harder to understand, maybe involving a curse against the English of all things.

“This-” Enjolras gestured vaguely to Grantaire and the room, with a nauseated expression, “This is remarkably stupid.” He concluded, lips pressed together in disappointment. Grantaire supposed Enjolras was disappointed in his poor choice of words, as even he after a dose of opium could do better than ‘stupid’.

Enjolras seemed ready to scold him again, maybe with a better selection of epithets, when yet another shrill, whistling sound resonated through Grantaire’s eardrums, making him clutch his head in pain.

“The kettle!” He managed to groan, vision blurring with tears at the unbearable noise.

Enjolras sprung into action, and almost immediately the noise ceased, making Grantaire sigh in relief. He followed Enjolras in the kitchen, where he found the man pouring the boiling water in the teapot.

“Thanks.” Grantaire said, honestly surprised at the consideration. “You didn’t have to…” He let the sentence trail off, not sure on how to close it. You didn’t have to help me? Stay? Be nice?

“It would be inconsiderate to let you handle something scalding in your conditions.” Enjolras gritted out, opening the only cabinet to pull out two mugs. “You can barely identify a kettle, much less operate one.”

Grantaire graciously accepted the mug and blew away the smoke, ignoring the barb. The situation felt no less surreal than before, with Enjolras in his kitchen serving him morphine-laced “tea”. Oh, wait…

“You probably don’t want to drink that.” He said, gesturing to the second mug Enjolras was filling. 

The man stopped immediately with an accusatory glare, opening the teapot to smell its contents. Apparently that was the end of his uncharacteristic niceness. Grantaire decided to take a preemptive sip in case Enjolras tried to confiscate his mug.

“You… You drugged the tea?!” Enjolras declared, more than asked, and quickly dumped the whole thing in the sink.

“Technically, there is no tea.” Grantaire said, and oh, apparently he was feeling better, sarcasm was back.

Enjolras didn’t seem to appreciate the joke, and opened his mouth, likely to start a new sermon, this time brandishing the now empty teapot. But Grantaire still had too much of a headache to let him start yelling in righteous fury. He needed a distraction…

“The program.” He said suddenly, anticipating Enjolras. After all, he had finished working on it, and it was likely the reason why the man was visiting at all. 

Enjolra stopped in his tracks, surprised at the mention of the program. “What about it?” He asked, almost cautious, as if expecting Grantaire to say he was backing out of their agreement.

“Uh, I did it?” Grantaire replied, gesturing towards his laptop, left open on the table. If Enjolras could stop tracking his movements like a hawk, he’d finish drinking the morphine tea and recover a bit.

Enjolras looked at him in silence, apparently rendered speechless. For the first time since the blonde had come in, Grantaire wished he was perfectly sober and holding pencil and paper, in order to capture that oh so rare expression of delighted surprise, lips slightly parted in an aborted gasp, plump and shiny like they had been wet to speak, but forgotten to do so. He tried to commit the image to memory, as much as his foggy mind would allow, as it only lasted a fraction of a second, then Enjolras went to the laptop in the main room.

Grantaire followed, and slumped on a random chair, finally free to rest a bit and recover, after that assault of stimuli. Enjolras was reading, attention completely dedicated to the document, and wasn’t paying him any attention.

It was hard to keep track of time when coming down from a high, and Grantaire was sure he looked as spaced out as he felt, as the morphine hit him and did his job of anchoring him back to reality. Enjolras glanced at him, from time to time, fiddling with the computer’s mouse to keep his hands busy as he read. At some point, Grantaire was forced out of his haze by a gasp.

He looked over at Enjolras, and felt his blood run cold. Somehow, the blonde had one of his sketches, clasped in his pretty hands. A sketch of Enjolras’ very own pretty hands. Grantaire felt his hangover intensify at the idea of explaining that outrageous coincidence. 

“Uh, pretty.” Enjolras commented, looking at him through his lashes, as if unsure whether Grantaire was listening at all. And seriously, how could he not? “Did you use a Greek statue as a reference? They usually have their hands clenched like this…”

Crisis averted. Hangover receding. “Yeah, sure. A pretty statue.” He smiled, disbelieving at the thought that someone wouldn’t recognise their own hands.

>>>

By the time Enjolras was done analysing his work, Grantaire had finished his unconventional tisane and felt almost completely like a functional human being.

Enjolras had turned to him, leaning towards his side of the table and staring with a curious expression, a mixture of confusion and disbelief. 

“You designed this program while under the influence?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed in consternation. 

Grantaire sighed, and decided to go for snarky: “No, there was plenty of time today to do both, separately.”

That sentence only seemed to further confuse Enjolras. His expression turned so comically lost Grantaire was expecting to see a question mark appear above his head.

“Grantaire, this is remarkable.” Enjolras said, slowly, likely measuring his words. “How could you accomplish it in a few hours?”

The backhanded compliment was just Enjolras’ style, Grantaire thought, his mood deflating after what had seemed like praise. It was clear that his Apollo did not expect him to be actually capable of the task he’d been assigned.

“I’ll take the laudation, whether intended or not, though I could do without the surprise, Apollo.” Grantaire said, trying to pass it for offhanded, but probably coming across bitter. 

Enjolras, as expected after a jab like that, bristled, nose scrunching in annoyance and body withdrawing back to his corner of the table. He huffed under his breath, interrupting eye contact to look back at the open document.

“Look, Grantaire,” he started, hesitantly but firmly, “I meant-”

“I know perfectly well what you meant. You’re usually precise with your words, Apollo.” Grantaire rebutted. He was tired, with the after effects of opium only now fading, and not in the mental state to go toe to toe with Enjolras. It had been unfair enough that the man had shown up before he could get some morphine in his recovering body, but now enduring an argument? The mere thought was draining and humiliating.

“Well, frankly, what did you expect?” Enjolras said, tone hardening, clearly gearing up for the confrontation. “When I come in to find you unable of coherent thought, is it so surprising that I doubt your competence?” 

“Doubt as you might, the program reaches even your olympian standards, therefore your mistrust is unfounded.” Grantaire cut short, shifting the discussion back to the program, and away from his self-destructive habits. Though in a way, prolonging the conversation was one of them.

“I had no one else I could entrust this to…” Enjolras muttered, looking like he regretted the sentence as soon as it left his lips. 

“As flattered that makes me,” Grantaire immediately retorted, vicious, “you asked as a favour. I don’t work for you, nor do I lounge around at your meetings waiting to be at your beck and call!” Grantaire winced internally for how close to a lie that last sentence was; however Enjolras questioning his abilities was seriously getting under his skin.

Enjolras sighed, but surprisingly not in frustration. He seemed actually disappointed that the conversation had taken such a sour turn, despite being the one who had put it on that path.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be having this conversation now, I can come back when you've got your wits about you.” He said, trying to mask the undertones of dismissal with a softer tone. 

Grantaire’s blood instantly boiled at the patronisation in Enjolras’ words. He had enough of Enjolras making him feel like a lesser human being. He just wanted the man to leave his dilapidated apartment and let him breathe. And the part of him that cowered at the risk of cutting his last ties to the one he adored so much, so much he’d risk burning just to stare, the piece of him that would likely do anything for a glance, would take fury over tranquility, and scorn over indifference; that oh so pathetic side of him, he brutally silenced.

Grantaire would be delighted to say that he was having a change of heart, a moment of clarity and life-changing decisions, but the reality was that he felt tired, hurt, hungover, and, as preannounced, drained. It was too much. It seemed he was never meant to fly towards the sun, if even fickle rays scorched him.

“Leave.”

Enjolras seemed perplexed, but oblivious to the inner turmoil Grantaire was experiencing. He looked at the door, clearly considering it.

“I want you to leave my house, now.” Grantaire repeated, losing any semblance of civility. “You came to me, unannounced, criticising the work I’ve done as a personal favour, mocking my lifestyle despite it not affecting my performance, and treating me like hired help. You! You uncaring, presumptuous patrician! If that’s what you really think of me, consider this,” Grantaire paused, gesturing at the computer and the space between them, “done. Have fun at your meetings, and remember to keep me posted on how saving the world goes.” A wave of nausea suddenly hit him for the likely consequences of his little speech.

Without waiting for a reaction, without even looking Enjolras in the eyes, not wanting to be tempted by the siren blue anymore, Grantaire got up and went to open the front door, enforcing how explicit his request had been.

Without a word of response, mouth pressed into a thin line and all colour drained from his already pale face, Enjolras stood and gathered his things. After one quick glance, Grantaire fixed his eyes to the worn wooden planks of the floor, resisting the temptation to cave. 

At the last second, one foot already out the door, Enjolras paused, turning back to the room. 

“Wait, but-” He started, sounding alarmed.

Grantaire capitulated, and looked up. But Enjolras wasn’t returning his gaze: he was instead fixed on the computer screen, still displaying the finished program.

Grantaire fumed. “Get out now!” He shouted, and physically pushed the smaller man out the door, before slamming it in his face.

>>>

Once alone in his apartment, Grantaire slumped down the wall, sitting unceremoniously on the floor. He felt awful, plain and simple. Rationally, he knew that after a dose of opium, the body was low in serotonin, and that was likely contributing to his blue mood. However the state of reality was that he wanted anything but be left alone with rational thoughts. He forced his body to cooperate and stood up again, recovering his phone only to check the time, purposefully ignoring the watch sitting heavily in his pocket.  

It was close to dinner time, not that his body could stomach any food at the moment. He felt numb, but at the same time not numb enough. He looked at the liquor cabinet, tortured. Would one last bad decision ruin him? Was it possible to be ruined by a single decision? Was there anything in him left to ruin? Even if he were to not wake up in the morning, the universe, the stars, the planets, would be unchanged. Would remain uncaring,

The rest of the night would be a blur, and the last coherent thought Grantaire had before blacking out was going up to the roof to look at the immutable stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooooooo, how was it? These two, I swear to God. 
> 
> Will Enjolras make another try to fix the situation? Is R even ok? You'll find out soon, as the next chapter is 90% done! Any comments make me jump around with joy and significantly shorten the wait for me to post *winks*
> 
> Chapter edited/re-edited/re-re-edited with frustration by the wonderful [Zuzu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlilyanne) who I will forever thank.
> 
> Don't do drugs, kids. 
> 
> -Marty


	4. And I Want These Words To Make Things Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has a mystery injury, Enjolras tries to apologise and there is most definitely not a cliffhanger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Marty here.  
> I wanted to say thank you very much for the kudos, I really appreciate every one of you who takes time to leave one! This chapter is pretty interesting, in my opinion, so I hope you'll like it!  
> The chapter is as always beta-d by the ever-supportive Zuzu, and the title is from "Thanks For The Memories" by Fall Out Boy.

Grantaire woke up drowsy, disoriented, and with his back hurting like hell. Someone was shaking his shoulder, and a familiar voice was worriedly calling his name: it took him longer than usual to recognise it was Joly’s. He had one wicked hangover, but the well known feeling of having been trampled by a stampede was being overshadowed by the intense pain in his back, between his shoulderblades.

“Grantaire, you’re bleeding!” Joly exclaimed, from his position kneeling at his side. “Bossuet! Come help him!”

Grantaire groaned at the loud voice, and tried to make sense of the situation. Joly and Bossuet were in his house, which meant either he left the door open, or they somehow got in with another method. Maybe Éponine had come with them; she could have picked his lousy lock in a matter of seconds.

“R, can you stay awake? What happened to your back? Do you need a hospital?” Joly asked, rapid fire. Too many questions to answer at once, so Grantaire just mumbled a no to hospitals.

“Fine, you insufferable baby, we’ll make do with what I have at home.” Joly sighed, and Grantaire deemed it an acceptable moment to pass out again.

He came back to his senses in Bossuet’s car, sprawled on his belly in the backseat. His stomach was not pleased with the situation.

“I’m going to throw up.” He slurred, and promptly delivered on the announcement.

“Oh, just my luck.” Bossuet groaned.

>>>

"I’m sorry, he did what?!” Combeferre asked, wide-eyed with shock.

Courfeyrac seemed to agree with the sentiment, paused with a spoonful of cereal hovering in mid air and his mouth slightly agape.

“He called me a ‘presumptuous patrician’, then kicked me out. Physically.” Enjolras repeated unhappily. He was somehow hoping they wouldn’t make a huge deal out of his… situation with Grantaire. He had waited until the morning to tell them about it, partly because it was a Saturday and neither of his almost roommates had to worry about work, and partly because he was hoping they would be less dramatic in the morning before either of them had any coffee.

“That doesn’t sound like a thing R would do… Especially to you!” Courfeyrac said, looking and sounding like he was still in denial of the situation.

“Especially to me? I don’t think Grantaire is particularly intimidated by me, Courf.” Enjolras sighed. “He actually sounded final… And for something so small, even!”

“Ok, rewind,” Combeferre said tiredly, rubbing at his temples. “Let me have my coffee, then start from the beginning. Didn’t you go to him to apologise?”

“Yeah, but I had no opportunity to do so, he was high!” Enjolras gritted out in frustration. “I really don’t know why things escalated so suddenly, I was being diplomatic!” He concluded, putting emphasis on the last word.

Combeferre visibly winced, looking at him in sympathy. “Nothing good can possibly follow in a situation where you think you’re being diplomatic.”

Enjolras sent him a wicked glare, and decided to ignore Courfeyrac’s sardonic laugh.

“I was! I only reprimanded him for the drug use once, barely reacted to his attempt to poison me-”

“Probably not what he was doing, Enjolras.” Interrupted Combeferre decisively, but then signalled him to continue.

Enjolras gritted his teeth at the interruption, but went on: “Then I called his work, and I quote, ‘remarkable’. I even mentioned that I didn’t want to fight, since he was still recovering!”

“You know, when you put it like that, it does sound like you were trying to be sympathetic…” Courfeyrac commented, mouth full of cereal.

“Yet, I bet that’s not how Grantaire took it.” Combeferre tacked on to Courfeyrac’s sentence, looking pensive. “Let’s see: when did he get angry at you?”

“I think… When I was surprised he could finish the program so quickly yet do such a good job.” Enjolras said, then grimaced, realising how that sounded. “He probably thought I didn’t consider him up to the task…”

Combeferre nodded, just the tiniest bit smug. “So what do you think prompted the insults?”

Enjolras sighed, for what felt like the millionth time that morning. He considered collapsing on the table in frustration, but then forced himself to look at the discussion from Grantaire’s point of view. The man clearly said he felt like Enjolras was treating him like hired help, and his actions at Grantaire’s house had done nothing to prove the contrary. Still, the reaction seemed too extreme. Which is why Enjolras leaned towards attributing at least part of it to the after effects of Grantaire’s drug use. And while he certainly did not excuse addictions in the slightest, Grantaire did correctly argue that it hadn’t affected his contribution to Les Amis.

“I don’t think I’m the only one in the wrong…” Was what Enjolras ended up saying. Courfeyrac raised one incredibly judgemental eyebrow. “Still, if I want to lead by example and match up with my reputation, I need to take the first step.”

Combeferre looked pleased, smiling from behind his third cup of coffee of the morning. “And what are you going to say to him this time?”

“That he is, first and foremost, a contributing and valued member of Les Amis, and he has skills no one else can provide, including myself. I should also mention that I am not familiar with the graphic design workload, and that we should have discussed in more detail what I was demanding of him.” Enjolras declared, feeling determined. He hated not getting any closure from an argument, and more importantly, losing the upper hand. In a way, Enjolras considered apologies to be the last part of an argument, and this one could act as a way not only to get back in Grantaire's good graces but also to settle the score.

“Uh, Enjolras? Maybe make it sound less like you’re trying to appease an employee who’s thinking about suing?” Commented Courfeyrac, clearly less than impressed with Enjolras’ declaration of intent.

“Enjolras, while you and Grantaire might not be defined as friends, you’ve known each other for years.” Interjected Combeferre, tone firm. “This is the chance to not let the progress you two have made go to waste. I know that deep down, you respect Grantaire and admire his abilities, and it’s time you step down from your pedestal a little. While you may not approve of his life choices, do you really have any proof that they outweigh his good qualities?”

Enjolras decided to take the easy way out of that one, and collapsed on the table in frustration. After a good minute spent gathering his thoughts, he voiced a new obstacle to the path of reconciliation: “Even if I wanted to solve things today, we’ve clearly established that showing up at his house is a terrible idea, not to mention the fact that he doesn’t want to see me.”

“Actually, that’s simple. Just call Joly. He’ll be happy to help, now that you’re at least trying to get along with Grantaire, and also, he would want to know that Grantaire is still doing opium.” Replied Combeferre, with a tone that suggested there should be no other complaints.

“Oh, I am not telling on him.” Enjolras immediately refused. “I will, for once, assume he is mature enough to tell the good doctor himself.”

After that, he excused himself from the kitchen, leaving the dishes to his guests as revenge for the early morning drama. It was still very early in the day, since the three of them were so used to early mornings that they ended up waking with the sun even on weekends. It might have been too early to call Joly, but Enjolras sent him a text anyway, and while waiting for a reply he started working on his protest speech.

>>>

Joly eventually replied, later in the morning, telling Enjolras that Grantaire was with him and Bossuet, feeling decisively sober and rational, and that Enjolras was free to come by and try to talk to him. Enjolras didn’t press for many details, deciding to assume Joly had been informed of their discussion by Grantaire and was likely going to tell the cynic about his possible visit.

By the time Enjolras felt confident enough to face Grantaire, it was nearing lunchtime, and he was standing in front of the door to Joly and Bossuet’s house, debating whether he should have brought a food offering of some sort. Eventually he decided against it, and ringed the doorbell.

“Yes?” Answered Bossuet.

“It’s Enjolras. I’m here to talk to Grantaire?” He left it as a question, open-ended. After all, Grantaire could have changed his mind about seeing him.

“Sure, come on up. He’s being whiny, but otherwise agreeable.” Bossuet replied, and buzzed him up.

When he arrived inside the quite cosy apartment, Enjolras was surprised to see Grantaire half-sprawled on a sofa, shirtless, with his upper torso completely bandaged.

“What happened?” He immediately asked, worried. Could it be that he left too early the previous evening, and Grantaire had injured himself in his still recovering state?

“Well, good morning to you too, Apollo. I can honestly say I wasn’t expecting to see your ethereal face so soon.” Grantaire said as way of response, his sarcasm and annoying epithets so familiar that Enjolras paid no mind to them.

“He apparently fell down a flight of stairs, or two.” Said Joly, coming out of the kitchen. He had a bagel in his hands, and looked more tired than usual.

Enjolras looked back at Grantaire. He fell down the stairs? No wonder he looked so pale and rattled.

“Well, let’s get this over with, demand your program so we can all go on with our lives.” Grantaire prompted, one hand massaging his temple as if fending off a headache.

Enjolras almost gaped. The program! He was shocked to realise he hadn’t given a single thought to it, not after Grantaire’s distress. It certainly wasn’t the reason for his visit, and this time he wanted to be sure there was no miscommunication between them.

“Actually, I am not here because of that. The way we… left things yesterday required proper closure, and certainly an apology on my part.” After saying that, Enjolras paused to look at the reaction of his interlocutors. He was well aware that if another discussion started, Joly and Bossuet would surely take Grantaire’s side, if only because of the injury.

There was a beat where everyone seemed to look at Enjolras: Grantaire had his brows furrowed in mild discomfort, while Joly and Bossuet seemed genuinely surprised.

“I don’t need any further closure, Enjolras.” Grantaire said, voice firm. Enjolras almost flinched when his full name was used, in place of the usual nickname. This was likely the one time when he would have preferred the annoying nickname. “I think I was quite clear about my intentions yesterday.”

Enjolras saw Joly send a conflicted look to Grantaire. He found himself in a similar conflict: on one hand, he wanted to respect Grantaire’s decision, and if the man wanted nothing more to do with Les Amis or Enjolras personally, there wasn’t much that could be done. On the other hand, it was such a waste, to just let Grantaire leave after such a messy argument, especially when Enjolras could recall many, more vicious ones that didn’t end with either of them getting hurt.

“Nevertheless, I would like to offer an apology, as useless as it may turn out to be.“

“What are you apologising for?” Asked Grantaire, looking still suspicious of Enjolras’ intentions.

“For dismissing your talents due to my own ignorance of the field, and more specifically, for treating you like a contemptible member of Les Amis, and condemning your flaws without acknowledging your good qualities.” Enjolras replied, without missing a beat. He had come prepared.

To his delight, Grantaire was reduced to speechlessness after his declaration. Some color even returned to his cheeks.

“Apollo,” he eventually murmured, with an inscrutable expression, “that sounded rehearsed.” Enjolras deflated at that, but then Grantaire added: “I’m almost flattered.”

Grantaire’s dry humour, for once, caught Enjolras off guard, and he didn’t quite manage to suppress a laugh. He hoped Grantaire wouldn’t find it mocking, but the cynic just stared at him, eyes wide. 

“This is better than a soap.” Bossuet murmured from somewhere in Enjolras’ periphery, in what was probably supposed to be a whisper. Enjolras felt a pang of annoyance at having to discuss private matters with others, but then again, Grantaire was injured and likely preferred the buffer after their last interaction. Despite that, the man  seemed equally displeased with the commentary , and threw a glare at the couple.

Enjolras decided to at least offer an alternative: “Grantaire, if you are feeling up to it, we could… Get a coffee?” He supposed it was always an appropriate hour for coffee, and Grantaire did look like he needed one.

Once again, his words seemed to surprise the other man, and Grantaire seemed to consider the offer before answering. Both of them pointedly ignored Bossuet nodding aggressively.

“Sure, Apollo. I’ll let you buy me a coffee.” Grantaire finally replied. “Though you’ll have to give me a minute to prepare, considering what I’m up against.”

After that cryptic statement, Grantaire left, likely to find his shirt. Joly immediately followed, calling after him about his bandage, and Enjolras was left with Bossuet.

“I’m glad to see you’re making an effort.” Bossuet said, once the others were out of earshot. “I know R can be a handful, but… I’m just glad, Enjolras. For you, as well. Thawing at last.” He clapped Enjolras on the shoulder, and offered a sincere smile, the teasing from earlier gone.

“I guess that’s one way to put it.” Enjolras responded, a little unsure about whether to take it as a compliment or not. “Thawing. I hope we’ll be able to reach an understanding, at least.”

>>>

They had ended up going to a small coffee shop down the road from Joly and Bossuet’s house, where Enjolras had diligently ordered and paid for Grantaire’s coffee and pastry, and bought something for himself as well. Grantaire groaned in discomfort when his injured back touched the chair, but he seemed otherwise unbothered by his injury, despite the large bandage Enjolras had seen earlier.

Enjolras didn’t know how to reopen the conservation, so they sat in silence, and while it couldn’t be called comfortable, it wasn’t as tense as Enjolras was expecting. Apparently, Grantaire enjoyed his coffee black, bitter, and scalding hot, which seemed fitting for him, all things considered.

“All right, Apollo, let’s cut to the chase.” Grantaire said abruptly, catching Enjolras off guard. “I said I was done with you and Les Amis, why wasn’t that enough for you?”

“I…” Enjolras sighed. “I never know how to act with you.” He confessed, setting aside any prepared speeches. “Sometimes your input is cutting, and clever, and it makes me realise the flaws in our campaigns; but other times you’re just so infuriating it makes me want to scream…”

“And you end up being cruel, or insensitive.” Grantaire finished for him, with no trace of accusation in his tone, like he was stating some universal truth.

There was nothing Enjolras could do but take the blow and keep going. “Mostly, I have no idea how to treat you. As much as I like to claim I know you and your weaknesses, I barely know anything about you, or your abilities and your talents.”

“That’s not a good excuse.” Grantaire retorted, looking unimpressed.

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Enjolras immediately stated, regaining his composure. He chose his next words carefully: “I’m offering an apology, for judging and mistreating you, and not just yesterday. You don’t have to accept it, and you’re free to leave Les Amis and never see me again.” Grantaire opened his mouth to interject, but Enjolras went on, “However, if for any reason you decide to remain in the group, please know that I’m not going to let things continue as they are. I am going to put in the effort to improve our relationship, and properly recognise the help you provide to the group.”

Grantaire remained silent for a moment, drinking his coffee. He looked somewhat resigned, which wasn’t what Enjolras had wanted. He hoped his gesture didn’t come off as too forceful, or as his usual subconscious efforts to make everything go his way.

“The fact that your offer seems sincere is a little shocking.” Grantaire finally said. “I have to admit, up until now I thought you were only apologising to get the damn program, or because Combeferre and Courfeyrac put you up to it, but no, you actually want to… what? Be friends?”

Enjolras shrugged, choosing to ignore Grantaire’s initial mistrust despite its sing. “Our personalities, ideals, and views differ tragically, so I would realistically like to start with being able to work together without being at each other’s throats.”

Grantaire gave the ghost of a sardonic smile, apparently amused by Enjolras’ bluntness, but not foregoing his suspicion. “I don’t mind arguing with you Apollo, especially when you’re talking nonsense.” He said, not quite as cuttingly as before. “I would certainly prefer it if you could leave my personal life out of your rhetorics, though.”

Grantaire looked very satisfied with himself when his final jab made Enjolras wince, and added: “Don’t worry though, Apollo, I know that means I won the argument.”

Enjolras immediately bristled at that, while Grantaire smiled at him, smug like the cat that got the cream.

“What do you mean, you won? Which argument?” He asked, rapid fire, already forgetting his previous commitment.

“The one about weapons at the protest. You didn’t have a strong enough argument, therefore you resorted to attacking me personally.” Grantaire explained.

Enjolras remained speechless for a moment, and most definitely did not pout at Grantaire’s entirely too logical reasoning. Then, he realised something.

“Well, wouldn’t that mean you lost yesterday’s discussion? I do recall being called a presumptuous patrician…” He said, emphasizing the epithet with amusement. To his immense delight, Grantaire’s cheeks pinked, and his face contorted in a grimace.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” He groaned. Enjolras nodded, enjoying a victory sip of his latte. “So what’s your solution here, Apollo? You don’t bring firearms to a protest and I don’t leave Les Amis? Do we have a deal?”

Enjolras extended his hand over the table. Grantaire shot him an incredulous, but somewhat amused look, and shook it.

“We have a deal.” Confirmed the blonde.

>>>

In the end, they decided to stay at the cafè for lunch as well, taking advantage of the good atmosphere to work out a few more issues. Enjolras offered to buy for lunch as well, but Grantaire refused, though he seemed perfectly content to let the blonde queue in the midday rush as he waited at the table. He lazily doodled something on a napkin, gaze lost on who knows what inspiration out of the window.

Enjolras entertained himself watching the artist draw: Grantaire was using a ballpen, but it didn’t seem hard for him not to tear the thin paper. Once he got whatever inspiration he was looking for from outside, he returned to his sketch with an uncharacteristically focused expression. It was nice to see Grantaire so serious for a change, how passionate he could be; it was a stark contrast to his self-proclaimed cynicism. When Grantaire looked up at him, Enjolras smiled, not particularly self-conscious despite being caught staring; but the artist’s eyes widened in surprise, and he seemed embarrassed, almost ashamed, and he hurried to pocket his sketch. Most likely, Grantaire was still annoyed by how his talents had been demerited. Enjolras made a point to discuss the cursed program one last time and make sure to clarify he did not mean to assign a menial task to Grantaire: he just hadn’t had the slightest idea of the difficulty of computer graphics.

The lunch surprisingly went off without a hitch, until Joly called, urging Grantaire to come home and change his bandages.

“Oh, I had meant to ask… How did that happen exactly?” Enjolras asked. He was sure Grantaire wasn’t hurt when he had been escorted out the previous evening.

Grantaire winced, suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, let’s just say I wasn’t done embarrassing myself last night, and somehow I ended up tumbling down a flight of stairs.” He explained, eyes downcast. “At least I think that’s what happened. Either that or some maniac did a number on my back.”

“Well,” Enjolras replied, deciding it was unnecessary to mention the implications of what Grantaire said, “I hope you can quickly recover. I’ll see you at the next meeting?”

Grantaire gave him a half-smile and pulled a very familiar pocket watch from his trousers.

“Wouldn’t dream of being late, Apollo.”

After the most pleasant exchange he’d had with Grantaire in years, Enjolras came back home feeling almost energised. The time spent with Grantaire outweighed the “I told you so's” that he was going to get from Combeferre and Courfeyrac (and possibly the rest of Les Amis).

All in all, the day had gone much better than expected, but Enjolras’ good mood evaporated the second he stepped back in his apartment, as a searing pain in his left thigh made him almost buckle to his knees. With a curse, he pulled off his jeans to inspect the affected area.

Staring at him, almost mockingly, was a bloody letter, carved in his flesh out of nowhere: a small, cursive, lowercase r.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zan zan zaaaan! Can you believe the main plot point, which is soul marks, is finally appearing? Are you curious about Grantaire and Enjolras' agreement? 
> 
> As you've probably noticed I'm not the quickest with updates, but I assure you this is going to be finished. If you want, you can bookmark or subscribe to know when a new chapter is out!
> 
> Hope you're enjoying this, leave me a comment for anything, including constructive criticism, or whether you'd like to see more of the of the other Amis~  
> -Marty


	5. I Could Not Foresee This Thing Happening To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which being a responsible adult is always hard, the protest looms closer and the wound just won't stop creating problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, it's Marty!
> 
> Thank you so much for the patience, it took me a while to get over a bit of a block. This is a less plot-heavy chapter, with more fun interactions and characters we still haven't seen.
> 
> As always, this was beta-d and polished for your entertainment by the wonderful Zuzu. There just wouldn't be a story without her.
> 
> Chapter title from "Paint It Black" by The Rolling Stones.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Oh, Joly was going to kill him.

Grantaire sighed, his back to the bathroom mirror, craning his neck to look at the red, swollen, and now sickly yellow mess across his shoulder blades. The wound was a thick band with jagged edges that, ever since that morning, had started oozing pus and throbbing insistently. He made a face, disgusted by the mess. Grantaire figured that this was what he deserved for not following Joly’s precise instructions on how often to change his bandages, and not buying the (way too expensive) disinfectant prescribed by the good doctor. It wasn’t like he’d never been injured before, sometimes even messier affairs than the rough cut on his back, but apparently this one had decided to be exceptionally annoying. The slight infection made the wound look even larger and more ominous, and once again Grantaire was left wondering what exactly had caused it. He was completely sure he hadn’t left the building, and while he did remember wanting to climb up to the roof, there were very few sharp railings that could have caused that big a damage. Well, no use crying over spilled milk, or blood in this case, he guessed.

He really wanted to find an excuse to put off calling Joly, and ended up deciding to wait until lunchtime. After all, it was a weekday, and the doctor was surely busy at the hospital where he interned. Though, as annoying and embarrassing as the situation was, it wasn't like he could avoid it for much longer than the few hours he'd just allowed himself to have.

After discovering his injury, Joly and Bossuet had been so worried about his physical (and mental) health that they had insisted he stay at their place for three days. While he was used to living with a matched couple, he had felt out of place adjusting to their well oiled work routine once the weekend had been over. Which of course meant that he had been finally free to return to all his self-destructive habits during the few days he had been back home to compensate, resulting in an infected wound. Now, those few hours before calling Joly could have been well spent with a few of his favourite vices, were it not for one difference. One difference that had made the day unusual, noticed as soon as he’d woken up and taken a glance at his phone, even before he’d discovered the infection on his back.

Apparently, he had been promoted to cordial acquaintances with Enjolras, as surreal as that was. This newfound… something meant being asked to consult. Grantaire had received a draft of the new speech via email to look over before the meeting on the following day. The most surprising part was that Enjolras hadn’t sent the document to everyone in Les Amis; only he, Combeferre and Feuilly were included in the email. Enjolras had even created profiles for them to edit the document in different colours: Combeferre was grey, Feuilly was orange, Grantaire had been assigned green, and Enjolras himself was, to no one’s surprise, red. Enjolras’ email simply stated he hoped Grantaire had a moment to read through the speech before hearing it at the meeting.

Grantaire honestly had no idea how to react to Enjolras actually keeping his word and making an effort. It was possible that this was a way to keep him satisfied, and Enjolras didn’t actually expect him to do anything. However, even with all his skepticism and cynicism, Grantaire couldn’t help but think that Enjolras was genuinely trying to build a better relationship. It was probably silly to believe that all of a sudden, Enjolras was going to give him the attention he had craved oh so desperately for years, and the event that spurred this change was Grantaire kicking him out of his house. Nevertheless, Grantaire was trying to not be his usual pathetic self, but instead to get better. To move on. And the first step was to make a real effort towards a fresh start like he had promised. Still, that didn’t mean he was going to miraculously apply for sainthood.

Therefore, he opened a bottle of sparkling white wine and emptied it in a carafe, then mixed it with half a carton of orange juice to make it acceptable to drink in the morning, and opened Enjolras’ speech. One of the first things anyone learnt when joining Les Amis was that Enjolras loved speeches. He always had one ready, even for smaller protests like the upcoming one, and obsessed over every last detail about them. However exaggerated it might have sounded, it worked for Enjolras. The man oozed charisma, even when Grantaire judged him objectively (which was not his strong suits). Enjolras knew every trick in the book to make a crowd believe in him, fight for him. It certainly helped that most of the times, he was a red and gold fury, hair wild and scarlet coat blowing in the wind, an ivory-skinned beauty with burning words.

Grantaire forced himself to focus on his task, unsurprised at how easily he’d transitioned to fantasising about Enjolras. He poured himself a glass of his mockery mimosa and began to read and edit.

>>>

Grantaire was two thirds and five glasses into his task when a knock on the door demanded his attention. Fantastic, so the doorbell hadn’t magically fixed itself while he stayed at Joly and Bossuet’s.

He went to open the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, had no overdue commissions and had settled all of his debts with his dealer, therefore for once wasn’t feeling particularly troubled by a sudden visitor. Also, whoever knocked wasn’t imperiously demanding a response, so there was no way it was Enjolras.

The door opened, revealing Éponine and Gavroche, both with suspiciously big smiles that could mean nothing good.

“Grantaire!” Éponine greeted, letting herself inside his apartment and dropping a massive bag on the floor. “I would love to stay and chat and get all the heinous details of your terrible decisions, but as you know, my new job is positively destroying me.” She continued, talking a mile a minute. She did look exhausted, dark circles under her eyes and hair even more unkempt than usual; but somehow she made it work, almost intentional, like a bad girl squeezed in a well fitting black uniform. “So, long story short, school’s out today because of a strike and last time I left Gav alone in the house he was almost arrested for grand theft auto.”

Grantaire looked incredulously at Gavroche, who was still smiling innocently and doing his utmost to convey his best impression of a regular ten-year-old.

“How?” He started to ask, but Éponine stopped him with a flick of her hand.

“Don’t ask. I just need you to keep him until tonight. Sober and sensible Grantaire is required. Please?” Éponine’s tone became softer with the last word. This was clearly an emergency. Despite considering Grantaire as one of her best friends and trusting him with her life, she had never asked him to babysit Gavroche before. The more suited Cosette was usually her first call, followed by Courfeyrac and even Combeferre once in a while. The reason was obvious, and she even told him outright, never one to dance around an issue: Grantaire was unpredictable.

“I mean, I’ve got a speech to edit and a painting to finish, and I’m pretty sure I only have orange juice and old donuts in the fridge, but we can work something out…” Grantaire trailed off awkwardly, suddenly very nervous at the idea of being trusted to keep Gavroche out of trouble.

“It’s fine R… Did you say a speech? You’re telling me you were serious about the Enjolras thing?” Éponine asked, sounding incredulous but somewhat impressed. “You have to tell me everything. But not now, I’m off to work, please be both alive and not in jail by the time I get back!” She finished in a rush, then pressed a kiss to Gavroche’s forehead and one to Grantaire’s for good measure, before running out.

Grantaire shot a wary look at Gavroche, who had started exploring the apartment with curiosity. He made a quick and panicked list of all the inappropriate things a kid could find in his apartment; then made a second list of how securely they were hidden.

“So... how do you feel about doing whatever you usually do while I finish my stuff?” Grantaire said eventually. He was really good with kids, when they were other people’s responsibilities and all he had to do was entertain them for a little while. This, however, was an opportunity to show that he could be entrusted with Gavroche, something that would be of huge help to Éponine as she tried to juggle custody of her little brother and her new job.

Gavroche shrugged. “Sure. I brought my console.” The kid pulled an old DS console from his bag and plopped down on the couch. He immediately made a weird face, and smelt the old piece of furniture. “You know, this thing really smells like pot.”

Grantaire grimaced. “Does it?” He decided to play dumb.

Gavroche smirked, not buying it. “Uh-huh. Also I’m pretty sure Ep didn’t notice the empty bottle of wine on the table, though you don’t seem drunk…”

“Well!” Grantaire interrupted loudly, snatching the bottle and the half-full carafe of his mimosa from the table. “How about you start up your game and I get you a nice glass of orange juice?”

Gavroche nodded, looking immensely amused. He probably thought that spending a day with Grantaire was some sort of fun adventure.

Once he had given Gavroche some juice, Grantaire deemed it alright to go back to Enjolras’ speech, albeit this time with no mimosa. He only had a couple of pages left, but Enjolras’ conclusion was a bit of a mess. There was a jab at the police department that Apollo surely thought no one would catch, as well as an insinuation or two that sounded a little too revolutionary for a Christian organisation to hear. Grantaire was pleased to see that Combeferre had also marked those in his soft grey, with a quick ‘marked for rephrasing’ comment.

Grantaire finished writing up his comments and then went through his work related emails, considering an offer that asked for a series of complex sketches to execute with charcoal on parchment. He was so absorbed that the cheerful voice coming from the kitchen made him jump.

“So the juice I can drink is the one that doesn’t fizz, right? Dude, you weren’t kidding, there is no food in this fridge…” Gavroche commented, apparently unfazed.

“Don’t wander around! Just ask me for whatever you need.” Grantaire said, trying to sound stern. “And don’t worry about the food, we’ll order takeout or something. Now, do you want to help me mix the paint? I have a painting to finish.”

Gavroche seemed excited at the idea of getting to use real oil paint, and once Grantaire provided him with a piece of old canvas, the kid was happy to play with them for a couple of hours, for once relaxed and acting like a kid his age. Gavroche was usually far too serious for a ten-year-old, especially as Éponine became busier and more tired because of her role as guardian.

When lunchtime neared, Grantaire left Gavroche in charge of ordering Chinese food, while he changed his bandages, grimacing at the still infected wound, and got ready to tell Joly the unfortunate news.

As predicted, the doctor did not react well.

“What do you mean, it’s covered in yellow pus and swollen?! It was doing fine when I saw it last! It should be closing by now!”

Grantaire sighed, but resigned himself to a lecture as he told Joly he hadn’t used the disinfectant. Gavroche’s head appeared in the doorway of his bedroom with a puzzled expression.

“Can I get a Coke?” The boy mouthed, politely trying to not disrupt his call. Grantaire nodded, and returned his full attention to Joly in time to hear: “And I’ll swing by around seven to take care of it.”

Oh, brilliant! The bloody thing was starting to hurt way too much to face completely sober, but he could bear it until that evening. He thanked Joly and apologised for his irresponsibility. He felt even guiltier, knowing that now, Joly would have to add to his already demanding schedule to buy the cursed disinfectant and stop at his place. All because he was too incapable of taking care of himself.

>>>

With a renewed intent to prove himself, Grantaire spent the rest of the day taking his task of looking after Gavroche seriously. His painting could wait until that night after all, he had no reason to go to bed early. So he helped Gavroche study, fumbling his way through the boy’s homework with significant help from Google. Pity ten-year-olds didn’t have art history in their curriculum, or he’d have been more useful. Nevertheless, Gavroche seemed to have fun, and was incredibly intrigued by the fact that Grantaire didn’t have a fixed work schedule, and could stay at home and paint when he felt more inspired. However, Grantaire gently reminded him of his empty fridge, and that prompted a trip to the grocery store, where despite Grantaire’s best efforts, Gavroche managed to shoplift a pair of socks, a notebook and a cereal box the size of his torso. But at least, the boy didn’t get caught, so Grantaire let it go.

They had cereal around six, and Grantaire had just started to stream a movie (Hercules, after vetoing Gavroche’s suggestion of Oliver Twist) when Éponine came back to collect her brother. If she was surprised to find Gavroche fed, happy and with his homework done, she didn’t show it. She also didn’t seem particularly surprised at finding her brother covered in paint. The kid happily showed her his painting and, unfortunately, the goods he stole from the store, but Éponine didn’t seem too angry about it, and instead shot a weird look at Grantaire.

“Well, if you had fun, maybe next time Cosette is busy we’ll ask R to keep an eye on you, what do you say?” She said, sounding a little smug for some reason. Gavroche nodded happily and went to get his things.

“Look at you,” she teased, once her brother was out of sight, “being a responsible adult in charge of a minor.”

“I’m probably possessed. Good thing Joly is coming to check on me in a bit.” Grantaire answered, trying to shrug off the undeserved praise. After all, he had been drinking before 10am.

Éponine probably wanted to ask why there was any need for Joly to come, but Gavroche came back, and she looked too exhausted to chat more.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting then! And you’ll tell me everything.” She concluded, plucked Grantaire’s latest sketch from Gavroche’s pocket, and left.

Grantaire waited for Joly to come check his wound and made his patient friend some tea and biscuits, which impressed him. Joly wrapped the wound in an extra resistant bandage over a thick layer of disinfecting cream, that Grantaire wasn’t allowed to open until the weekend, when Joly would do it.

>>>

The following day was a Thursday, which made it the last meeting before the small protest. Grantaire once again went with Joly and Bossuet, and arrived on time. He sat at his usual table at the back of the room, this time with Éponine. They had some time to talk before the meeting began, and Grantaire told her all about the mess and unexpected resolution with Enjolras. She disapproved of him still taking opium, but seemed delighted at the idea of Enjolras being kicked out in the middle of an argument and actually returning to apologise. She was more or less on his side, but commented that it was probably true that Enjolras didn’t know how easy the task had been, and that he was at least somewhat correct in thinking Grantaire wasn’t the best choice when it came to Les Amis stuff, considering how confrontational Grantaire had always been.

The room was full that day, with all the core members of Les Amis as well as many of the satellite members, and even some from affiliated organisations that were interested in their protest. Enjolras was monitoring the turnout from his spot at the front of the room, while Combeferre shuffled between stacks of notes and Courfeyrac waltzed around charming all the new faces. Feuilly was setting up his computer to project what was, Grantaire realised, his program. It felt uncanny, to see his contribution front and center at a meeting, and Grantaire wasn’t sure if he liked it.

When everyone had settled, Enjolras welcomed them, started introducing the main points of their protest, and did other very Enjolras things that Grantaire, for once, really wanted to listen to but found himself distracted as usual. He ended up doodling Enjolras’ eyes, surrounded by some of the more vivid sentences he caught, and some he remembered from the speech he edited. He hardly minded when Éponine stole what was left of his pitcher of wine, because she complimented him on the cool composition of the sketch.

There was an unofficial break after an hour or so, with one of the representatives of the Christian organisation going up to ask Enjolras questions personally. Grantaire made the mistake of following Éponine (she still had his wine, after all), and found himself at Cosette and Marius’ table up front. Marius was, as usual, staring enthralled at his girlfriend, while trying not miss a single word of Enjolras’ conversation, and asking Éponine interested questions about her brother all at once. Maybe he wasn’t managing all of his tasks, but he sure tried. He even pulled out a blank piece of paper for Grantaire, in case he wanted to expand his sketch, because Marius was always thoughtful like that.

Grantaire let Éponine and Cosette’s conversation fade into the background, becoming completely engrossed in his sketch. He ended up halfway listening to Enjolras’ conversation, like Marius. The man was doing better than expected at taming down his more subversive ideas for the mild-mannered Christian representative, but fumbled when he was asked about spirituality. Grantaire, Marius, and even Combeferre, from the nearby table, all cringed at Enjolras’ long-winded and completely off topic response. Enjolras seemed to have noticed as well, because afterwards he excused himself and came over to their table, followed by Combeferre.

"Well, that could have gone better.” The blonde remarked, plopping down into an open seat. Marius shrugged.

Grantaire thought for a moment about how to put it... well, more gently than he would have before. “Apollo... it was a Pindaric flight and a half.”

Surprisingly enough, that seemed to be the right thing to say, because Enjolras gave a huff of laughter. “That bad, huh?”

“I’m afraid Grantaire’s right, ‘Apollo’.” Commented Combeferre, earning a glare from Enjolras at the nickname. “Maybe next time just deflect the question entirely.”

“Uh... what’s a Pindaric flight?” Interjected Marius.

“It’s a term used for a digression that has nothing to do with the rest of a conversation or text, basically.” Combeferre explained, ever helpful. Marius nodded, looking for all intents and purposes like he was about to start taking notes.

“Anyway, the rest of the meeting is going swimmingly.” Combeferre said. “We’ll give Courf a few more minutes to charm his audience, then you can do the closing.” Enjolras agreed, then seemed to relax minutely, pouring a glass of soda from Marius and Cosette’s pitcher.

“Oh, Enj, have you seen R’s latest work?” Marius suddenly called, realising Grantaire had expanded his sketch on the larger sheet of paper. “I bet it would look awesome as a banner!”

Grantaire froze. Oh shit. Maybe Marius hadn’t noticed it was Enjolras’ eyes, but there was no way Combeferre, or Cosette for that matter, would be as oblivious. But it was already too late, the rest of the table had turned their attention to Grantaire’s drawing. He eyed his pitcher of wine. Maybe he could pretend to be really drunk and upturn it on the drawing?

“That’s really good, Grantaire. Very vivid for a sketch.” Combeferre commented first, followed by Cosette: “Yes, and I love the composition.” Despite their impressive poker faces, Grantaire knew his bluff had been called.

“...Those are my words.” Enjolras said, voice unreadable. “From the speech.”

“Well, that’s the point, I’m assuming.” Marius replied, when after a beat Grantaire didn’t answer. “Considering the eyes.”

Betrayal! And from Marius of all people! Grantaire was most definitely taking back his offer of painting his and Cosette’s inevitable nursery.

Enjolras seemed confused. “The eyes? I’m afraid I’m once again missing a reference.” He cast an almost conspiratorial look to Grantaire, making the artist choke on nothing. “Though I’m sure Grantaire will have a witty comment to chastise me with.”

Grantaire simultaneously thanked and cursed whatever god prompted Enjolras to direct amused remarks at him, lips curled in an irresistible grin. Thankfully he was completely sober, or else he would have made a fool of himself.

Combeferre, either noticing his distress or simply getting on with the schedule, ended the pause, and suggested they discuss turning Grantaire’s design into a banner at a later date.

Crisis averted, or at least postponed. Enjolras finding out Grantaire spent his time drawing parts of his body like a creep could only damage their newfound friendship. He probably should rid of the sketch, but ultimately decided not to, and settled for putting it away in his bag for the rest of the meeting.

>>>

Sunday. Day of the protest and, for Grantaire, the day he would finally get his bandage off. He had to wake up early to get to Joly’s in time for him to check the wound so they could go to the protest together. Grantaire had been careful with his bandaging this time, not wanting Joly’s kind efforts to go to waste a second time. Grantaire had noticed the pain had subsided, so he felt optimistic.

Joly enlisted Bossuet’s help, and the three of them started the unwrapping process, expensive disinfectant at the ready. Grantaire was silent, listening carefully for eventual judgment. Which turned out to be a good idea, since as soon as the bandage was removed Joly gasped.

“That bad?” Grantaire asked, deflating.

“No, it’s…” Joly faltered, and made an unintelligible sound.

“Give us a second, it seems healed but we need to wipe away the cataplasm first.” Bossuet reassured him, albeit after another awkward pause. After that, Grantaire felt a wet towel on his back, unpleasant but not painful on his sensitive skin.

“Yeah, it’s…” Joly started again, tone promising nothing good. Then he sighed. “Look, let’s clean and bandage it again for now, and it should be properly healed by tonight.”

“Can I take a look?” Grantaire asked, with the distinct feeling they were keeping something from him.

“No!” Bossuet replied immediately, his haste only worsening Grantaire’s suspicions.

“Well, there’s no time now, we need to get to the protest.” Joly cut the discussion short, dabbing the wound with disinfectant and quickly wrapping it with a clean bandage. “You’ll see it tonight.”

For some reason, that sounded rather ominous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey! Yes, there is a bit of a cliffhanger! 
> 
> What do you think made Joly and Bossuet so worried?
> 
> Chapter 6 is going to be a big one! 
> 
> Please know each of your kudos and comments is incredibly appreciated. I am incredibly grateful to see people enjoying my story.
> 
> -Marty


	6. Your Hands Are Weak / But Your Body Wants More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's flirting, existential crises, and life-changing decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! I'm back sooner than expected, considering what a monster in terms of writing this chapter was. I apologise in advance for my dodgy use of stream of consciousness that even my beautiful beta Zuzu couldn't contain.  
> If you're here, I like you already, and I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> Chapter title is from "Get Up" by All Good Things, which is a super motivational song. The full sentence would be: "Your hands are weak/ They're barely hanging on / But your body still wants more".
> 
> -Marty

Enjolras absentmindedly rubbed his bandaids. Wretched letters. He’d gotten two more: an _i_ next to his _r_ , and a _g_ a good bit further away. All three letters were still fresh, bloodied messes, but far apart enough that they could be easily read, wild slashing lines that contrasted with his pale skin. They had appeared out of the blue, each a flash of intense pain, but thankfully no one had been around to see him clutching his thigh and cursing the entire soulmate system. Enjolras had put durable bandaids over them and called it a day, hoping that he would be lucky enough to have them disappear, and return to his previous, and much appreciated, markless status. The placement of the letters was also source of constant annoyance. Having fresh wounds on his thigh meant an almost constant twinge whenever he walked, and it would be hard to pass as a random injury, especially to his observant and obtrusive friends.

“Everything alright, Enj dear?” Courfeyrac asked, as if on cue, with a thousand watt smile. He was always excited during their events, no matter how dangerous they could get.

He dismissed Courfeyrac with a flippant: “Yeah, just going through everything.”

Courfeyrac nodded, then turned to monitor the turnout. “Don’t worry, Apollo, everything is in order.”

Enjolras sighed in annoyance. “Don’t you dare join Grantaire in calling me that,” he admonished, glaring at his friend.

Courfeyrac’s smile didn’t falter. “Ah, but I thought it had grown on you! You didn’t nag R about it at the last meeting…”

Enjolras frowned, trying to think about whether or not it was true. When he couldn’t come up with a definitive answer, he shrugged and sighed: “Between Apollo or an insult, I’ll take the god. But unlike Grantaire, you are perfectly capable of using my name.”

Courfeyrac backed off at that, sauntering away to help Jehan with some signs. Enjolras followed him back to the group, deciding to put aside his preoccupations in favour of focusing on the event.

He was pleasantly surprised to see Grantaire had arrived, early no less, along with Joly and Bossuet. After their mutual agreement, Grantaire had given Enjolras no reason to underestimate him again, and had instead proven to be quite insightful with his corrections on Enjolras’ speech.

The blonde walked over to welcome them, and was immediately greeted by Grantaire’s mocking salute, and a sardonic but sweet smile. Surprised by Grantaire’s friendliness, Enjolras found himself at a bit of a loss for words.

“You’re… here.” He ended up saying, a touch more uncertain that he would have liked.

“Why of course, we-” Grantaire looked around, but Joly and Bossuet were suddenly nowhere to be found, “I am.” He shrugged, apparently unbothered by Enjolras’ surprised tone. “ _Hic et nunc._ Here and now, at your service.”

Enjolras’ brain short-circuited.

Had Grantaire just used Latin? Was it offensive that Enjolras was taken aback?

“You speak Latin?!” Enjolras said, incredulously, before he could process it.

Apart from himself, the only other people masochistic enough to inflict a dead language upon themselves were Combeferre and Jehan. Combeferre because he thought all knowledge was worth studying, and Jehan because they were Jehan and likely knew all languages known to mankind.

After he had a moment to think about it, Enjolras realised it wasn’t as far-fetched as he would have originally thought. After all, Grantaire was a classicist through and through, and it was probable he had included Latin in his studies. Showing his surprise had been in bad taste, Enjolras realised, and Grantaire’s frown confirmed it. Normally he would have simply changed the topic back to the protest to avoid an argument, but he genuinely felt bad that Grantaire would take his surprise as an insult, when it had been such a pleasant surprise.

“No, wait,” Enjolras said, as he grabbed Grantaire’s jacket sleeve, despite him not giving any indication of moving away. “I mean to say that it’s impressive that you do.” He quickly and awkwardly corrected himself, watching Grantaire’s reaction closely. The artist had stiffened when Enjolras had grabbed him, and his eyes widened in confusion, and what seemed incredulity. Grantaire, Enjolras noticed now that he was paying attention, had very expressive eyes.

“Alright Apollo,” Grantaire said after a beat of silence, “thanks for the clarification?” He finished, almost a question, eyes dropping to Enjolras’ hand, still on his jacket.

“Well then,” Enjolras nodded, satisfied by the reaction, “shall we go set this protest up?” He sent a small smile towards Grantaire, and patted him awkwardly on the arm before finally letting his sleeve go.

Grantaire only nodded, but he looked almost dazed, as if he had barely listened to what Enjolras had just said. Probably wondering, Enjolras thought, how I manage to be so socially inept. But at the very least, they were getting along; and the discovery that Grantaire was smarter than Enjolras had given him credit for was by far the best outcome of their tentative friendship so far.

>>>

Grantaire came back from the protest tired, slightly grimy and with a few new bruises. Joly and Bossuet had invited him to stay with them for the night, behaving, as usually, like mother hens. For once, Grantaire didn’t mind. The way they had acted that morning, almost shocked at the state of his wound, had worried him. Grantaire had expected them to say either that it was going to scar horribly, or that it required some advanced medical care.

Already impatient, Grantaire insisted on having the first shower, so he could get it over with. Joly’s face was a very interesting and very worrying grimace that did absolutely nothing to lessen his nerves. Yeah, he was going to get sent to a hospital, most likely, and wouldn’t that be a bliss.

“Sure, let’s… Let’s get you out of those bandages.” Joly muttered nervously, wringing his hands together. Bossuet was pretending to watch news coverage of the protest, while monitoring the situation closely. It reminded Grantaire of their behaviour when they caught him under the influence of something. Wary, almost worried he would hurt himself. It suddenly hit him: whatever the status of his injury was, Joly and Bossuet expected him to freak out about it. Uneasiness began pooling at the bottom of his stomach.

“Out with it, Joly.” He demanded, with a less flippant tone than he would have liked. “What’s going on?”

The doctor sighed, and Bossuet came over, dropping all pretence of watching TV. Wordlessly, Joly gestured for him to take his shirt off, and Grantaire did.

There was a moment of silence where Joly sent a pleading look to Bossuet, who eventually said: “You didn’t fall down the stairs.”

That was not what Grantaire had expected. “What do you mean? What happened to my back then?” He pressed, hands automatically going up to pull at the bandages. The first thought that came into his head was that he managed to get into some kind of fight, as that would usually warrant his friends’ concern.

“You didn’t actually get hurt.” Joly answered, positioning himself behind Grantaire to help him. “The… It was too infected to notice before, but it’s not actually a cut, or a wound… per se.”

Grantaire felt a bubble of nervous laughter rising up his throat. That didn’t make any sense. “Joly, what are you talking about? Of course it’s a wound, it was bleeding and hurt like fucking hell, what else-”

Grantaire stopped, the beginnings of a realisation coming to him. But. Surely it couldn’t be?

Joly didn’t add anything else, just finished unwrapping and gave Bossuet an almost helpless look.

“Do you want a mirror?” Bossuet asked, speaking slowly, as if trying not to spook a cornered animal.

Grantaire felt a bit like standing on thin ice. Even if his not-a-wound was… that, it didn’t automatically mean it was bad. Though knowing his luck… He turned his back away from Joly, the doctor’s gaze suddenly burning, and backed away.  

He still hadn’t answered Bossuet, and instead he asked: “Is it… bad?” The recalcitrance of his friends was making him feel uneasy.

Joly took a step towards him. “No! No, R, it’s not bad at all. Let me just get you a mirror.”

Grantaire shook his head, but didn’t try to stop Joly when he left the room.

“It’s… that, isn’t it?” He asked, maintaining a somewhat even tone. Bossuet understood what he meant immediately.

“Yeah, it’s a mark.” He answered, and relaxed minutely when Grantaire didn’t react badly.

And truly, Grantaire felt like their nervousness was a bit exaggerated. He hadn’t expected to feel afraid. He had known that theoretically, people could get letters at any point in their lives, but it was really more of an abstract concept for him. It was something that happened to people who had their lives figured out, and were often already in serious relationships. Not to barely-holding-it-together addicts with pathetic crushes!

Bossuet waited in silence until Joly came back, struggling to carry a floor length mirror from their bedroom on his own. Grantaire felt his apprehension increase at the idea that Joly and Bossuet had already seen it, and even worse read it… Maybe that was the reason why they were so nervous. The mark was awful and they didn’t know how to tell him. He sighed, and tried to steel himself.

“Ready?” Asked Joly, soft and reassuring. Grantaire glared at him, but he probably looked pale, still grimy from the protest and not particularly intimidating.

“I think this will be good for you.” Added Bossuet, and Grantaire was surprised to see the man at ease, like the threat of a bad reaction from him had passed. He mostly felt resigned, ready to take yet another blow. Still, he wasn’t going to run out, which was a marked improvement on his usual damage control.

Eventually, Grantaire turned in front of the mirror. His face was pale, unshaven, scrunched in a grimace, and with a purpling bruise on his jaw. A real poster boy for soul marks right there.

He had half a mind to ask how much of his soul mark had appeared, to be more prepared. Sure, the wound was large, but it could still be a single word, or… Grantaire sighed. No use in endless speculations, it was time to see it.

He took a deep breath, and turned around.

>>>

Grantaire always thought it was silly when in books, characters would be able to pinpoint a single moment that changed their life. Surely no event could be singled out, weighted on such a different scale, held to a higher standard for arbitrary reasons.

Yet.

He now had the evidence that such moments really existed. A guillotine had dropped to cleave his life in two distinct halves.

Of course, he knew the power of words. Words could change one’s life. He’d seen it happen, he’d felt it happen, even against his will, during speeches. Apollo’s speeches. Words were powerful, and dangerous, and surely, surely a sword would cut less.

Because it hurt.

And the most maddening thing, the absolute worst part of it was that the mark, actually, had very little to do with the pain. Oh no, the mark was… something else entirely, curling over his shoulder blades, neat, elegant and complete. Complete! No wonder he had believed he had fallen down the stairs, all those letters carved in his back at once, left to get infected overnight.

And it wasn’t an insult, like his worst fears had predicted, but that made it no less a slap in the face.

He would have loved to just put the blame on the wretched string of words taking up space on his back, but his current distress was less the mark itself and more its implications.

It offered hope. Hope that someone would speak those words to him, and mean them. But it also offered fear, because as everyone knew, marks could fade. They represented emotional maturity, after all, and that could be lost. And oh, if Grantaire didn’t know a thing or two about losing yourself. More than anything, those words represented a choice: to believe in them, believe that he had the potential to fulfill them, and go forth trying to live up to them; or to do nothing, stay unchanged and carry on as he'd always done, believing in nothing, and especially not in himself.

The second choice was the easier one, for sure, but for once, not the painless one. All his life, giving up had been the way to avoid pain: giving up on a real career, on pursuing his ideals, on self-preservation. Yet, now there were words mocking him, taunting him and telling him that no matter what, he would suffer. Because this time, giving up meant disappointing his soulmate, plus the universe that had decided to carve those words on his body, and wasn't that fucked up. Yet, deciding to fight to keep the words was terrifying, for more that one reason. Right now, he flinched away from even thinking them. He still had no idea what cosmic forces could ever consider him emotionally mature, let alone plaster such grand words on his back, while he was too drunk to notice.

Trying to reach a place where he was worthy of his mark...

It was impossible. And the inevitable fallout when the universe realised he didn't deserve a mark would only be harder to bear if he had tried.

Grantaire shook himself out of his bleak thoughts. He had been standing under the cold shower for far too long, and the fact that neither Joly nor Bossuet had come to check that he hadn't tried to drown himself was a relief. They were trying to give him space, but they had made sure he didn't lock the bathroom door. Not that Grantaire was planning anything drastic. After all, the worst case scenario was doing absolutely nothing and feeling the words getting reabsorbed into his skin. Grantaire wondered if he would get unmarred skin back or a mess of scar tissue. The latter was more likely, knowing him. The universe was bound to take offence if he decided to scorn this gift.

His stomach gave an unpleasant lurch at the very idea of waiting for the mark to fade, as if on purpose, hurting himself before the universe could try and do it in his stead.

Maybe he was bound to fail, but did he really hate himself so much he wasn’t even going to try?

>>>

Joly was trying to read the textbook in front of his eyes, hoping to distract himself from the bathroom door. Bossuet had just finished changing into his pyjamas, and was putting the kettle on. They all needed some green tea. And maybe Xanax. Joly was sure he had some in the secondary medicine cabinet.

"Shouldn’t we, I don't know, check on him?" Bossuet asked, while taking out three mugs.

“I don’t know!” Joly answered, flustered. “I’m not that kind of doctor!”

Bossuet looked unamused.

Ever since Joly had noticed that the wound was a mark, and what it said, he had been unsure about Grantaire's reaction. His friend wasn't resolutely against soulmates, and seemed to genuinely believe in the system, as the continued support to his and Bossuet's match showed. However, Grantaire had always lived as if the system would never apply to him, and not because he wasn't interested in relationships, but because he never expected to get a mark. Much less a complete one, all at once. Though to be fair, no one got complete marks. Grantaire just had to keep his dramatic flair even in that.

"The water must have gone freezing by now... He'll be out soon." Joly added, repentant.

Bossuet was pouring the first cup of tea, when the bathroom door slammed open, startling him into dropping the teapot, shattering it across the tiles.

There was Grantaire, in all his naked glory. Dramatic flair indeed.

"What am I supposed to do?!" Grantaire yelled, ignoring the tea disaster. "You two are a literal soulmate advertisement campaign, so tell me: why do I have these words on my back?" He turned around, and showed them the now familiar red mark.

"You have those words on your back because you deserve them," replied Bossuet, voice firm. He raised a hand to stop Grantaire, who looked like he was going to object. "Or better, you could deserve them, if you tried to be the man we know you can be."

Joly, having finished mourning the loss of a perfectly good teapot, had to admit his partner was right. Bossuet's words might have seemed harsh, but Joly knew Grantaire would have listened to nothing less.

"I know it looks like our relationship is idyllic," Joly added, gesturing for Grantaire to sit next to him on the couch, "but we had to make a lot of adjustments, and we didn't get our marks for a long time."

"The mark is thought to mean you are ready to hear those words, but if you think you aren't, that's perfectly fine." Bossuet's words seemed to surprise Grantaire, who turned his full attention to him. "Maybe they just mean you could be. I, for one, would love to see you accept your mark."

"Oh, sure, let me just drink my non-existent tea and I’ll get right on that!" Grantaire snarked, even while looking terrified. Joly reached over to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. Grantaire's skin was damp and freezing after the shower, and he was trembling a bit. "It probably won't be easy, nor particularly pleasant. And you most certainly don't have to decide now."

"No," Grantaire shook his head, and suddenly deflated, anger leaving him. He sagged, almost, collapsing against Joly as if touch starved. "If I don't decide now I know I'll ignore it." He mumbled, voice starting to shake. "But I don't think I can do it. Not even for my soulmate."

"It wouldn't be for someone else." Corrected Joly, passing a hand through Grantaire’s dripping curls. "It has to be for yourself, so you can look at that mark and think: yes, those words are about me."

“And it’s not like you have to do it alone. Me and Joly would be there for anything you needed, and the others too, even if we don’t tell them exactly what prompted the change.” Bossuet added, and Joly wanted to kiss him for specifying that Grantaire didn’t need to tell anyone else. “I’m sure Bahorel would be thrilled if you decided to go back to that boxing class with him.”

“He enjoys nailing me in the face way too much, if you ask me,” Grantaire commented, and while it still sounded like he was about to cry, there was a bit of his usual cocksure self bleeding into the tone.

“So we’re doing this? Sobriety? Really?” Joly asked, untangling himself from Grantaire so he could look him in the eyes.

“I… We are.” Grantaire nodded, looking surprised by his own answer.

“Yes! I am so proud of you!” Cheered Bossuet, jumping to his feet. “I’ll get another teapot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand there we are! One Grantaire on his way to recovery, coming right up!  
> Are you curious about what his mark says? Any speculations? Sorry for the tease, I promise it'll be worth the wait...  
> Let me know each and any thought, I yearn for your opinions.  
> Next chapter should happen soon, and it should contain less existential anguish, I promise~
> 
> -Marty


End file.
